•1 


GIFT  OF 


BROKEN  TO  THE  PLOW 


by 


CHARLES  CALDWELL  DOBIE 

Author  of  "THE  BLOOD  RED  DAWN'! 


HARPER   &   BROTHERS    PUBLISHERS 

NEW    YORK    AND    LONDON 


BROKEN  TO  THE  PLOW 


Copyright,  1921,  by  Harper  &  Brothers 
Printed  in  the  United  States  of  America 


•5 


TO  MY  BROTHER 

Who  Helped  Make  My  Literary 

Career  Possible 


1  o  1 1 

^.  /v  L   v 


ROKEN 


BROKEN  TO  THE  PLOW 


CHAPTER  I 

COWARD  four  o'clock  in  the  afternoon  Fred 
A  Starratt  remembered  that  he  had  been  com 
missioned  by  his  wife  to  bring  home  oyster  cocktails 
for  dinner.  Of  course,  it  went  without  saying  that 
he  was  expected  to  attend  to  the  cigars.  That 
meant  he  must  touch  old  Wetherbee  for  money. 
Five  dollars  would  do  the  trick,  but,  while  he  was 
about  it,  he  decided  that  he  might  as  well  ask  for 
twenty-five.  There  were  bound  to  be  other  de 
mands  before  the  first  of  the  month,  and  the  hard- 
fisted  cashier  of  Ford,  Wetherbee  &  Co.  seemed  to 
grow  more  and  more  crusty  over  drafts  against  the 
salary  account.  If  one  caught  him  in  a  good  humor 
it  was  all  right.  Usually  a  risque  story  was  the 
safest  road  to  geniality.  Starratt  raked  his  brains 
for  a  new  one,  to  no  purpose.  Every  moment  of 
delay  added  greater  certainty  to  the  conviction 
that  he  was  in  for  a  disagreeable  encounter.  At 
four  o'clock  Wetherbee  always  began  to  balance  his 
cash  for  the  day  and  he  was  particularly  vicious  at 
any  interruptions  during  this  precise  performance. 


'BROKEN  TO   THE  PLOW 


What  in  th£  tvofld  had  possessed  Helen  to  give  this 
absurd  dinner  party  to  two  people  Starratt  had 
never  met?  At  least  she  might  have  put  the  thing 
off  until  pay  day,  when  money  was  more  plentiful. 

How  did  others* manage?  Starratt  asked  himself. 
Because  there  was  a  small  minority  in  the  office  who 
received  their  full  month's  salary  without  a  break 
during  the  entire  year.  Take  young  Brauer,  for 
instance.  He  got  a  little  over  a  hundred  a  month 
and  yet  he  never  seemed  short.  He  dressed  well, 
too — or  neatly,  to  be  nearer  the  truth ;  there  was  no 
great  style  to  his  make-up.  Of  course,  Brauer  was 
not  married,  but  Starratt  could  never  remember  a 
time,  even  before  he  took  the  plunge  into  matri 
mony,  when  he  was  not  going  through  the  motions 
of  smoothing  old  Wetherbee  into  a  good-humored 
acceptance  of  an  I  O  U  tag.  Starratt  did  not 
think  himself  extravagant,  and  it  always  had 
puzzled  him  to  observe  how  free  some  of  his  salaried 
friends  were  with  their  coin.  Only  that  morning 
his  wife  had  reflected  his  own  mood  with  exag 
gerated  petulancy  when  she  had  said: 

"I'm  sure  I  don't  know  where  all  the  money  goes ! 
We  don't  spend  it  on  cafes,  and  we  haven't  a  car, 
and  goodness  knows  I  only  buy  what  I  have  to 
when  it  comes  down  to  clothes." 

What  she  had  to!  He  thought  over  the  phrase 
not  with  any  desire  to  put  Helen  in  the  pillory,  but 
merely  to  uncover,  if  possible,  the  source  of  their 
economic  ills. 

In  days  gone  by,  when  his  mother  was  alive,  he 


BROKEN   TO   THE  PLOW  3 

had  heard  almost  the  same  remark  leveled  at  his 
father : 

"Well,  I  suppose  some  people  could  save  on  our 
income.  But  we've  got  to  be  decent — we  can't  go 
about  in  rags!" 

He  knew  from  long  experience  just  the  sort  his 
mother  had  meant  by  the  term  "some  people." 
Brauer  was  a  case  in  point.  Mrs.  Starratt  always 
spoke  of  such  as  he  with  lofty  tolerance. 

' '  Oh,  of  course,  foreigners  always  get  on !  They're 
accustomed  to  live  that  way!" 

Fred  Starratt  had  not  altogether  accepted  his 
mother's  philosophy  that  everybody  lacking  the 
grace  of  an  Anglo-Saxon  or  Scotch  name  was  a 
foreigner.  There  were  times  when  he  was  given 
to  wonder  vaguely  why  the  gift  of  "getting  on" 
had  been  given  to  "foreigners"  and  denied  him. 
Once  in  a  while  he  rebelled  against  the  implied 
gentility  which  had  been  wished  on  him.  Were 
rags  necessary  to  achieve  economy?  Granting  the 
premises,  in  moments  of  rare  revolt  he  became 
hospitable  to  any  contingency  that  would  free  him 
from  the  ever-present  humiliation  of  an  empty 
purse. 

He  soon  had  learned  that  the  term  "rags"  was  a 
mere  figure  of  speech,  which  stood  for  every  pre 
tense  offered  up  as  a  sacrifice  upon  the  altar  of  ap 
pearances.  His  mother  had  never  been  a  spend 
thrift  and  certainly  one  could  not  convict  Helen  on 
such  a  charge.  But  they  both  had  one  thing  in 
common — they  "had  to  have  things"  for  almost 


4  BROKEN   TO   THE  PLOW 

any  and  every  occasion.  If  a  trip  were  planned  or  a 
dancing  party  arranged  or  a  tea  projected — well, 
one  simply  couldn't  go  looking  like  a  fright,  and 
that  was  all  there  was  to  it.  His  father  never 
thought  to  argue  such  a  question.  Women  folks 
had  to  have  clothes,  and  so  he  accepted  the  situa 
tion  with  the  philosophy  born  of  bowing  gracefully 
to  the  inevitable.  But  Starratt  himself  occasion 
ally  voiced  a  protest. 

"Nothing  to  wear?"  he  would  echo,  incredu 
lously.  "Why,  how  about  that  pink  dress?  That 
hasn't  worn  out  yet." 

"No,  that's  just  it!  It  simply  won't!  I'm  sick 
and  tired  of  putting  it  on.  Everybody  knows  it 
down  to  the  last  hook  and  eye.  ...  Oh,  well,  I'll 
stay  home.  It  isn't  a  matter  of  life  and  death. 
I've  given  things  up  before." 

When  a  woman  took  that  tone  of  martyrdom 
there  really  was  nothing  to  do  but  acknowledge 
defeat.  Other  men  were  able  to  provide  frocks  for 
their  wives  and  he  supposed  he  ought  to  be  willing 
to  do  the  same  thing.  There  was  an  element  of 
stung  pride  in  his  surrender.  He  had  the  in 
grained  Calif ornian's  distaste  for  admitting,  even 
to  himself,  that  there  was  anything  he  could  not 
afford.  And  in  the  end  it  was  this  feeling  rising 
above  the  surface  of  his  irritation  which  made  him 
a  bit  ashamed  of  his  attitude  toward  Helen's  dinner 
party.  After  all,  it  would  be  the  same  a  thousand 
years  from  now.  A  man  couldn't  have  his  cake  and 
eat  it,  and  a  man  like  Brauer  must  live  a  dull  sort  of 


BROKEN   TO   THE  PLOW  5 

life.  What  could  be  the  use  of  saving  money  if  one 
forgot  how  to  spend  it  in  the  drab  process?  As  a 
matter  of  fact,  old  Wetherbee  wouldn't  gobble  him. 
He'd  grunt  or  grumble  or  even  rave  a  bit,  but  in  the 
end  he  would  yield  up  the  money.  He  always  did. 
And  suddenly,  while  his  courage  had  been  so 
adroitly  screwed  to  the  sticking  point,  he  went  over 
to  old  Wetherbee 's  desk  without  further  ado. 

The  cashier  was  absorbed  in  adding  several 
columns  of  figures  and  he  let  Starratt  wait.  This 
was  not  a  reassuring  sign.  Finally,  when  he  con 
descended  to  acknowledge  the  younger  man's 
presence  he  did  it  with  the  merest  uplift  of  the  eye 
brows.  Starratt  decided  at  once  against  pleas 
antries.  Instead,  he  matched  Wetherbee's  quizzical 
pantomime  by  throwing  the  carefully  written 
I  O  U  tag  down  on  the  desk. 

Wetherbee  tossed  the  tag  aside.  "You  got 
twenty-five  dollars  a  couple  of  days  ago!"  he 
bawled  out  suddenly. 

Starratt  was  surprised  into  silence.  Old  Wether 
bee  was  sometimes  given  to  half -audible  and  im 
personal  grumblings,  but  this  was  the  first  time  he 
had  ever  gone  so  far  as  to  voice  a  specific  objection 
to  an  appeal  for  funds. 

"What  do  you  think  this  is?"  Wetherbee  went 
on  in  a  tone  loud  enough  to  be  heard  by  all  the 
office  force.  "The  Bank  of  England?  .  .  .  I've  got 
something  else  to  do  besides  advance  money  every 
other  day  to  a  bunch  of  joy-riding  spendthrifts. 
In  my  day  a  young  man  ordered  his  expenditures 


6  BROKEN   TO   THE  PLOW 

to  suit  his  pocketbook.  We  got  our  salary  once  a 
month  and  we  saw  to  it  that  it  lasted.  .  .  .  What's 
the  matter — somebody  sick  at  home?" 

Starratt  could  easily  have  lied  and  closed  the 
incident  quickly,  but  an  illogical  pride  stirred  him 
to  the  truth. 

"No,"  he  returned,  quietly,  "I'm  simply  short. 
We're  having  some  company  in  for  dinner  and  there 
are  a  few  things  to  get — cigars  and — well,  you 
know  what." 

Wetherbee    threw    him    a    lip-curling     glance. 
"Cigars?    Well,   twopenny  clerks  do  keep  up  a 
pretty  scratch  and  no  mistake.     In  my  day — " 
Starratt  cut  him  short  with  an  impatient  gesture. 

"Times  have  changed,  Mr.  Wetherbee." 

"Yes,  I  should  say  they  have,"  the  elder  man 
sneered,  as  he  reached  for  the  key  to  the  cash 
drawer. 

For  a  moment  Starratt  felt  an  enormous  relief  at 
the  old  man's  significant  movement.  He  was  to  get 
the  money,  after  all!  But  almost  at  once  he  was 
moved  to  sudden  resentment.  What  right  had 
Wetherbee  to  humiliate  him  before  everybody 
within  earshot?  He  knew  that  the  eyes  of  the 
entire  force  were  being  leveled  at  him,  and  he  felt 
a  surge  of  satisfaction  as  he  said,  very  distinctly : 

"Don't  bother,  Mr.  Wetherbee.  ...  It  really 
doesn't  make  the  slightest  difference.  I'll  manage 
somehow." 

Old  Wetherbee  shrugged  and  went  on  adding 
figures.  Starratt  felt  confused.  The  whole  scene 


BROKEN  TO   THE  PLOW  7 

had  fallen  flat.  His  suave  heroics  had  not  even 
made  Wetherbee  feel  cheap.  He  went  back  to  his 
desk. 

Presently  a  hand  rested  upon  his  shoulder.  He 
knew  Brauer's  fawning,  almost  apologetic,  touch. 
He  turned. 

"If  you're  short — "  Brauer  was  whispering. 

Starratt  hesitated.  Deep  down  he  never  had 
liked  Brauer;  in  fact,  he  always  had  just  missed 
snubbing  him.  Still  it  was  decent  of  Brauer  to  .  .  . 

"That's  very  kind,  I'm  sure.  Could  you  give 
me — say,  five  dollars?" 

Brauer  thrust  two  lean,  bloodless  fingers  into  his 
vest  pocket  and  drew  out  a  crisp  note. 

"Thanks,  awfully,"  Starratt  said,  quickly,  as  he 
reached  for  the  money. 

Brauer's  face  lit  up  with  a  swift  glow  of  satisfac 
tion.  Starratt  almost  shrank  back.  He  felt  a 
clammy  hand  pressing  the  bill  against  his  palm. 

"Thanks,  awfully,"  he  murmured  again. 

Brauer  dropped  his  eyes  with  a  suggestion  of 
unpleasant  humility. 

"I  wish,"  flashed  through  Starratt's  mind,  "that 
I  had  asked  for  ten  dollars." 

As  Fred  Starratt  came  down  the  steps  leading 
from  the  California  Market  with  a  bottle  of  oyster 
cocktails  held  gingerly  before  him  he  never  re 
membered  when  he  had  been  less  in  the  mood  for 
guests.  A  passing  friend  invited  him  to  drop  down 
for  a  drink  at  Collins  &  Wheeland's,  but  the  state 


8  BROKEN   TO   THE  PLOW 

of  his  finances  urged  a  speedy  flight  home  instead. 
At  this  hour  the  California  Street  cars  were  crowded, 
but  he  managed  to  squeeze  into  a  place  on  the 
running  board.  He  always  enjoyed  the  glide  of 
this  old-fashioned  cable  car  up  the  stone-paved 
slope  of  Nob  Hill,  and  even  the  discomfort  of  a 
huddled  foothold  was  more  than  discounted  by  the 
ability  to  catch  backward  glimpses  of  city  and 
bay  falling  away  in  the  slanting  gold  of  an  early 
spring  twilight  like  some  enchanted  and  fabulous 
capital. 

At  Hyde  Street  he  changed  cars,  continuing  his 
homeward  flight  in  the  direction  of  Russian  Hill. 
He  prided  himself  on  the  fact  that  he  still  clung 
to  one  of  the  old  quarters  of  the  town,  scorning  the 
outlying  districts  with  all  the  disdain  of  a  San 
Franciscan  born  and  bred  of  pioneer  stock.  He 
liked  to  be  within  easy  walking  distance  of  work, 
and  only  a  trifle  over  fifteen  minutes  from  the  shops 
and  cafes  and  theaters.  And  his  present  quarters 
in  a  comparatively  new  apartment  house  just  below 
the  topmost  height  of  Green  Street  answered  these 
wishes  in  every  particular. 

On  the  Hyde  Street  car  he  found  a  seat,  and, 
without  the  distraction  of  maintaining  his  foothold 
or  the  diversion  of  an  unfolding  panorama,  his 
thoughts  turned  naturally  on  his  immediate  prob 
lems.  The  five  dollars  had  gone  a  ridiculously 
small  way.  Four  oyster  cocktails  came  to  a  dollar 
and  a  quarter,  and  he  had  to  have  at  least  six  cigars 
at  twenty-five  cents  apiece.  This  left  him  some- 


BROKEN   TO   THE  PLOW  9 

what  short  of  the  maid's  wage  of  three  dollars  for 
cooking  and  serving  dinner  and  washing  up  the 
dishes.  If  Helen  had  engaged  Mrs.  Finn,  every 
thing  would  be  all  right.  She  knew  them  and  she 
would  wait.  Still,  he  didn't  like  putting  anybody 
off — he  was  neither  quite  too  poor  nor  quite  too 
affluent  to  be  nonchalant  in  his  postponement  of 
obligations. 

When  he  arrived  home  he  found  that  Helen  had 
been  having  her  troubles,  too.  Mrs.  Finn  had  dis 
appointed  her  and  sent  a  frowsy  female,  who  exuded 
vile  whisky  and  the  unpleasant  odors  of  a  slattern. 

"I  think  she's  half  drunk,"  Helen  had  confessed, 
brutally.  "You  can't  depend  on  anyone  these 
days.  Servants  are  getting  so  independent!" 

The  roast  had  been  delivered  late,  too,  and  when 
Helen  had  called  up  the  shop  to  protest  she  had 
been  met  with  cool  insolence. 

"I  told  the  boy  who  talked  to  me  that  I'd  report 
him  to  the  boss.  And  what  do  you  suppose  he  said  ? 
'Go  as  far  as  you  like!  We're  all  going  out  on  a 
strike  next  week,  so  we  should  worry!'  Fancy  a 
butcher  talking  like  that  to  me!  I  don't  know 
what  things  are  coming  to." 

Frankly,  neither  did  Fred  Starratt,  but  he  held 
his  peace.  He  was  thinking  just  where  he  would 
gather  enough  money  together  to  pay  Mrs.  Finn's 
questionable  substitute. 

The  guests  arrived  shortly  and  there  were  the 
usual  stiff,  bromidic  greetings.  Mrs.  Hilmer  had 
been  presented  to  Fred  first  ...  a  little,  spotless, 


io  BROKEN   TO   THE  PLOW 

homey  Scandinavian  type,  who  radiated  competent 
housekeeping  and  flawless  cooking.  The  Starratts 
had  once  had  just  such  a  shining-faced  body  for  a 
neighbor — a  woman  who  ran  up  the  back  stairs 
during  the  dinner  hour  with  a  bit  of  roasted  chicken 
or  a  pan  of  featherweight  pop-overs  or  a  dish  of 
crumbly  cookies  for  the  children.  Mrs.  Starratt, 
senior,  had  acknowledged  her  neighbor's  culinary 
merits  ungrudgingly,  tempering  her  enthusiasm, 
however,  with  a  swift  dab  of  criticism  directed  at  the 
lady's  personality. 

"My,  but  isn't  she  Dutch,  though!"  frequently 
had  escaped  her. 

Somehow  the  characterization  had  struck  Fred 
Starratt  as  very  apt  even  in  his  younger  days. 
And  as  he  shook  hands  with  Mrs.  Hilmer  these  same 
words  came  to  mind. 

Hilmer  disturbed  him.  He  was  a  huge  man  with 
a  rather  well-chiseled  face,  considering  his  thickness 
of  limb,  and  his  blond  hair  fell  in  an  untidy  shower 
about  his  prominent  and  throbbing  temples.  Fred 
felt  him  to  be  a  man  without  any  inherited  social 
graces,  yet  he  contrived  to  appear  at  ease.  Was  it 
because  he  was  disposed  to  let  the  women  chatter  ? 
No,  that  could  not  account  for  his  acquired  suavity, 
for  silence  is  very  often  much  more  awkward  than 
even  clumsy  attempts  at  speech. 

As  the  dinner  progressed,  Fred  Starratt  began  to 
wonder  just  what  had  tempted  Helen  to  arrange 
this  little  dinner  party  for  the  Kilmers.  When  she 
had  broached  the  matter,  her  words  had  scarcely 


BROKEN  TO   THE  PLOW  n 

conveyed  their  type.  A  woman  who  had  helped 
his  wife  out  at  the  Red  Cross  Center  during  the 
influenza  epidemic  could  be  of  almost  any  pattern. 
But  immediately  he  had  gauged  her  as  one  of  his 
wife's  own  kind.  Helen  and  her  women  friends 
were  not  incompetent  housewives,  but  their  efforts 
leaned  rather  to  an  escape  from  domestic  drudgery 
than  to  a  patient  yielding  to  its  yoke.  If  they  dis 
cussed  housekeeping  at  all,  it  was  with  reference 
to  some  new  labor-saving  device  flashing  across  the 
culinary  horizon.  But  Mrs.  Kilmer's  conversation 
thrilled  with  the  pride  of  her  gastronomic  achieve 
ments  without  any  reference  to  the  labor  involved. 
She  invested  her  estate  as  housekeeper  for  her  hus 
band  with  a  commendable  dignity.  It  appeared 
that  she  took  an  enormous  amount  of  pains  with  the 
simplest  dishes.  It  was  incredible,  for  instance, 
how  much  thought  and  care  and  time  went  into  a 
custard  which  she  described  at  great  length  for 
Helen's  benefit. 

"But  that  takes  hours  and  hours!"  Helen 
protested. 

"But  it's  a  real  custard,"  Hilmer  put  in,  dryly. 

Fred  Starratt  felt  himself  flushing.  Kilmer's 
scant  speech  had  the  double-edged  quality  of  most 
short  weapons.  Could  it  be  that  his  guest  was 
sneering  by  implication  at  the  fare  that  Helen 
had  provided?  No,  that  was  hardly  it,  because 
Helen  had  provided  good  fare,  even  if  she  had  pre 
pared  most  of  it  vicariously.  Kilmer's  covert  dis 
dain  was  more  impersonal,  yet  it  remained  every 


12  BROKEN   TO   THE  PLOW 

whit  as  irritating,  for  all  that.  Perhaps  a  bit  more 
so,  since  Fred  Starratt  found  it  hard  to  put  a  finger 
on  its  precise  quality.  He  had  another  taste  of 
it  later  when  the  inevitable  strike  gossip  intruded 
itself.  It  was  Helen  who  opened  up,  repeating  her 
verbal  passage  with  the  butcher. 

"They  want  eight  hours  a  day  and  forty -five 
dollars  a  week,"  she  finished.  "I  call  that 
ridiculous!" 

"Why?"  asked  Hilmer,  abruptly. 

"For  a  butcher?"  Helen  countered,  with  pained 
incredulity. 

"How  long  does  your  husband  work?"  Hilmer 
went  on,  calmly. 

"I'm  sure  I  don't  know.  How  long  do  you  work, 
Fred?" 

Starratt  hesitated.  "Let  me  see  ...  nine  to 
twelve  is  three  hours  .  .  .  one  to  five  is  four  hours 
— seven  in  all." 

Hilmer  smiled  with  cryptic  irritation.  "There 
you  have  it!  ...  What's  wrong  with  a  butcher 
wanting  eight  hours?" 

Helen  shrugged.  "Well,  a  butcher  doesn't  have 
to  use  his  brains  very  much!"  she  threw  out, 
triumphantly. 

1 '  And  your  husband  does.     I  see ! " 

Starratt  winced.  He  felt  his  wife's  eye  turned 
expectantly  upon  him.  "Seven  hours  is  a  normal 
day's  work,"  he  put  in,  deciding  to  ignore  Kilmer's 
insolence,  "but  as  an  employer  of  an  office  force 
you  must  know  how  much  overtime  the  average 


BROKEN  TO  THE  PLOW  13 

clerk  puts  in.  We're  not  afraid  to  work  a  little  bit 
more  than  we're  paid  for.  We're  thinking  of  some 
thing  else  besides  money." 

Hilmer  buttered  a  roll.     "What,  for  instance?" 

"Why,  the  firm's  interest  .  .  .  our  own  advance 
ment,  of  course  .  .  .  the  enlarged  capacity  that 
comes  with  greater  skill  and  knowledge."  He 
leaned  back  in  his  seat  with  a  self-satisfied  smile. 

Hilmer  laid  down  his  butter  knife  very  deliber 
ately.  "That's  very  well  put,"  he  said;  "very 
well  put,  indeed!  And  would  you  mind  telling  me 
just  what  your  duties  are  in  the  office  where  you 
work?" 

"I'm  in  the  insurance  business  .  .  .  fire.  We 
have  a  general  agency  here  for  the  Pacific  coast. 
That  means  that  all  the  subagents  in  the  smaller 
towns  report  the  risks  they  have  insured  to  us. 
I'm  what  they  call  a  map  clerk.  I  enter  the  details 
of  every  risk  on  bound  maps  of  the  larger  towns 
which  every  insurance  company  is  provided  with. 
In  this  way  we  know  just  how  much  we  have  at 
risk  in  any  building,  block,  or  section  of  any  city. 
And  we  are  able  to  keep  our  liability  within  proper 
limits." 

"You  do  this  same  thing  ...  for  seven  hours 
every  day  .  .  .  not  to  speak  of  overtime?" 

"Yes." 

"And  how  long  have  you  been  doing  this?" 

"About  five  years." 

"And  how  long  will  you  continue  to  do  it?" 
."God  knows!" 


i4  BROKEN   TO   THE  PLOW 

Hilmer  rested  both  hands  on  the  white  cloth. 
They  were  shapely  hands  in  spite  of  their  size, 
with  healthy  pink  nails,  except  on  a  thumb  and  fore 
finger,  which  had  been  badly  mangled.  "For 
five  years  you  have  worked  seven  hours  every  day 
on  this  routine  .  .  .  and  in  order  to  enlarge  your 
capacity  and  skill  and  knowledge  you  have  worked 
many  hours  overtime  on  this  same  routine,  I 
suppose  without  any  extra  pay.  ...  It  seems  to 
me  that  a  man  who  only  gets  a  chance  to  exercise 
with  dumb-bells  might  keep  in  condition,  but  he'd 
hardly  grow  more  skillful.  ...  Of  course,  that  still 
leaves  two  theories  intact — working  for  your  own 
advancement  .  .  .  and  the  interest  of  your  firm.  I 
suppose  the  advancement  has  come,  I  suppose 
you  Ve  been  paid  for  your  overtime  ...  in  increased 
salary." 

Helen  made  a  scornful  movement.  "If  you  call 
an  increase  of  ten  dollars  a  month  in  two  years  an 
advancement,"  she  ventured,  bitterly. 

Starratt  flushed. 

"That  leaves  only  one  excuse  for  overtime. 
And  that  excuse  is  usually  a  lie.  Why  should  you 
have  the  interest  of  your  firm  at  heart  when  it 
does  nothing  for  you  beyond  what  it  is  forced  to 
do?" 

Fred  Starratt  bared  his  teeth  in  sudden  snapping 
anger.  "Well,  and  what  do  you  do,  Mr.  Hilmer, 
for  your  clerks?" 

"Nothing  .  .  .  absolutely  nothing  .  .  .  unless  they 
demand  it.  And  even  then  it's  only  the  exceptional 


BROKEN   TO   THE  PLOW  15 

man  who  can  force  me  into  a  corner.  The  average 
clerk  in  any  country  is  like  a  gelded  horse.  He's 
been  robbed  of  his  power  by  education  ...  of  a  sort. 
He's  a  reasonable,  rational,  considerate  beast  that 
can  be  broken  to  any  harness." 

"What  do  you  want  us  to  do?  Go  on  a  strike 
and  heave  bricks  into  your  plate-glass  window? 
.  .  .  What  would  you  do  in  our  place?" 

"I  wouldn't  be  there,  to  begin  with.  I've 
heaved  bricks  in  my  day."  He  leaned  forward, 
exhibiting  his  smashed  thumb  and  forefinger.  "I 
killed  the  man  who  did  that  to  me.  I  was  born  in 
a  Norwegian  fishing  village  and  after  a  while  I 
followed  the  sea.  That's  a  good  school  for  action. 
And  what  education  you  get  is  thrashed  into  you. 
The  little  that  sticks  doesn't  do  much  more  than 
toughen  you.  And  if  you  don't  want  any  more  it 
does  well  enough.  Later  on,  if  you  have  a  thirst 
for  knowledge,  you  drink  the  brand  you  pick  your 
self  and  it  doesn't  go  to  your  head.  Now  with  you 
.  .  .  you  didn't  have  any  choice.  You  drank  up 
what  they  handed  out  and,  at  the  age  when  you 
could  have  made  a  selection,  your  taste  was  formed 
...  by  others.  ...  I  don't  mind  people  kicking  at  the 
man  who  works  with  his  hands  if  they  know  what 
they're  talking  about.  But  most  of  them  don't. 
They  get  the  thing  second  hand.  They're  chock 
full  of  loyalty  to  superiors  and  systems  and  govern 
ments,  just  from  habit.  .  .  .  I've  worked  with  my 
hands,  and  I've  fought  for  a  half  loaf  of  bread  with 
a  dirk  knife,  and  I  know  all  the  dirty,  rotten  things 


16  BROKEN  TO  THE  PLOW 

of  life  by  direct  contact.  So  when  I  disagree  with 
the  demands  of  the  men  who  build  my  vessels  I 
know  why  I'm  disagreeing.  And  I  usually  do  dis 
agree  .  .  .  because  if  they've  got  guts  enough  in  them 
they'll  fight.  And  I  like  a  good  fight.  That's  why 
potting  clerks  is  such  a  tame  business.  It's  almost 
as  sickening  as  a  rabbit  drive." 

He  finished  with  a  gesture  of  contempt  and 
reached  for  his  goblet  of  water. 

Starratt  decided  not  to  dodge  the  issue;  if 
Hilmer  wished  to  throw  any  further  mud  he  was 
perfectly  ready  to  stand  up  and  be  the  target. 

"Well,  and  what's  the  remedy  for  stiffening  the 
backbone  of  my  sort?"  he  asked,  with  polite 
insolence. 

"Stiffening  the  backbone  of  the  middle  class  is 
next  to  impossible.  They've  been  bowing  and  scrap 
ing  until  there's  a  permanent  kink  in  their  backs!" 

"The  'middle  class'?"  Helen  echoed,  incred 
ulously. 

Hilmer  was  smiling  widely.  There  was  a  strange, 
embarrassed  silence.  Starratt  was  the  first  to  re 
cover  himself.  "Why,  of  course!  .  .  .  Why  not? 
You  didn't  think  we  belonged  to  any  other  class, 
did  you?" 

It  was  Mrs.  Hilmer  who  changed  the  subject. 
"What  nice  corn  pudding  this  is,  Mrs.  Starratt! 
Would  you  mind  telling  me  how  you  fhade  it?" 

Hostilities  ceased  with  the  black  coffee,  and  in 
the  tiny  living  room  Hilmer  grew  almost  genial. 


BROKEN   TO   THE  PLOW  17 

His  life  had  been  varied  and  he  was  rather  proud 
of  it — that  is,  he  was  proud  of  the  more  sordid 
details,  which  he  recounted  with  an  air  of  satis 
faction.  He  liked  to  dwell  on  his  poverty,  his  lack 
of  opportunity,  his  scant  education.  He  had  the 
pride  of  his  achievements,  and  he  was  always 
eager  to  throw  them  into  sharper  relief  by  dwelling 
upon  the  depths  from  which  he  had  sprung.  He 
had  his  vulgarities,  of  course,  but  it  was  amazing 
how  well  selected  they  were — the  vulgarities  of 
simplicity  rather  than  of  coarseness.  And  while  he 
talked  he  moved  his  hands  unusually  for  a  man  of 
northern  blood,  revealing  the  sinister  thumb  and 
forefinger,  which  to  Fred  Starratt  grew  to  be  a 
symbol  of  his  guest's  rough-hewn  power.  Hilmer 
was  full  of  raw-boned  stories  of  the  sea  and  he  had 
the  seafarer's  trick  of  vivid  speech.  Even  Helen 
Starratt  was  absorbed  ...  a  thing  unusual  for  her. 
At  least  in  her  husband's  hearing  she  always  dis 
claimed  any  interest  in  the  brutalities.  She  never 
read  about  murders  or  the  sweaty  stories  in  the 
human-interest  columns  of  the  paper  or  the  un 
pleasant  fictioning  of  realists.  Her  excuse  was  the 
threadbare  one  that  a  trivial  environment  always 
calls  forth, ' '  There  are  enough  unpleasant  things  in 
life  without  reading  about  them!" 

The  unpleasant  things  in  Helen  Starratt 's  life 
didn't  go  very  far  beyond  half-tipsy  maids  and 
impertinent  butcher  boys. 

Kilmer's  experiences  were  not  quite  in  the  line  of 
drawing-room  anecdotes,  and  Starratt  had  seen  the 


i8  BROKEN  TO   THE  PLOW 

time  when  his  wife  would  have  recoiled  from  them 
with  the  disdainful  grace  of  a  feline  shaking  un 
welcome  moisture  from  its  paws.  But  to-night 
she  drew  her  dark  eyebrows  together  tensely  and 
let  her  thin,  vivid  lips  part  with  frank  eagerness. 
Her  interest  flamed  her  with  a  new  quality.  Fred 
Starratt  had  always  known  that  his  wife  was 
attractive ;  he  would  not  have  married  her  otherwise ; 
but,  as  she  leaned  forward  upon  the  arm  of  her  chair, 
resting  her  elbows  upon  an  orange  satin  pillow,  he 
saw  that  she  was  handsome.  And,  somehow,  the 
realization  vaguely  disturbed  him. 

Kilmer's  stories  of  prosperity  were  not  so  moving. 
From  a  penniless  emigrant  in  New  York  until  he  had 
achieved  the  distinction  of  being  one  of  the  leading 
shipbuilders  of  the  Pacific  coast,  his  narrative 
steadily  dwindled  in  power,  the  stream  of  his  life 
choked  with  stagnant  scum  of  good  fortune. 
Indeed,  he  grew  so  dull  that  Helen  Starratt, 
stifling  a  yawn,  said : 

"If  it's  not  too  personal  .  .  .  won't  you  please  tell 
us  ...  about  .  .  .  about  the  man  you  killed  for 
smashing  your  thumb  ?  " 

He  laughed  with  charming  naivete,  and  began 
at  once.  But  it  was  all  disappointingly  simple. 
It  had  happened  aboard  ship.  A  hulking  Finn, 
one  of  the  crew's  bullies,  had  accused  Hilmer  of 
stealing  his  tobacco.  A  scuffle  followed,  blows, 
blood  drawn.  Upon  the  slippery  deck  Hilmer  had 
fallen  prone  in  an  attempt  to  place  a  swinging  blow. 
The  Finn  had  seized  this  opportunity  and  flung  a 


BROKEN   TO   THE  PLOW  19 

bit  of  pig  iron  upon  Kilmer's  sprawling  right  hand. 
Hilmer  had  leaped  to  his  feet  at  once  and,  seizing 
the  bar  of  iron  in  his  dripping  fingers,  had  crushed 
the  bully's  head  with  one  sure,  swift  blow. 

"He  fell  face  downward  ...  his  head  split 
open  like  a  rotten  melon." 

Helen  Starratt  shuddered.  "How  .  .  .  how  per 
fectly  fascinating!"  escaped  her. 

Starratt  stared.  He  had  never  seen  his  wife  so 
kindled  with  morbid  excitement. 

"I  ...  I  thought  you  didn't  like  to  hear  un 
pleasant  stories,"  he  threw  at  her,  disagreeably. 

She  tossed  the  flaming  cushion,  upon  which  she 
had  been  leaning,  into  a  corner,  a  certain  insolence 
in  her  quick  gesture. 

"I  don't  like  to  read  about  them,"  she  retorted, 
and  she  turned  a  wanton  smile  in  the  direction  of 
Hilmer. 

At  this  juncture  the  maid  opened  the  folding 
doors  between  the  dining  room  and  the  living  room. 
She  had  on  her  hat  and  coat,  and,  as  she  retreated 
to  the  kitchen,  Helen  Starratt  flashed  a  significant 
look  at  her  husband. 

He  followed  the  woman  reluctantly.  When  he 
entered  the  kitchen  she  was  leaning  against  the  sink, 
smoothing  on  a  pair  of  faded  silk  gloves. 

"I'm  sorry,"  he  began,  awkwardly,  "but  I  for 
got  to  cash  a  check  to-day.  How  much  do  you 
charge?" 

The  woman's  hands  flew  instinctively  to  her  hips 
as  she  braced  herself  into  an  attitude  of  defiance. 


20  BROKEN   TO   THE  PLOW 

"Three  dollars!"  she  snapped.  "And  my  car 
fare." 

He  searched  his  pockets  and  held  out  a  palm 
filled  with  silver  for  her  inspection.  "I've  just 
got  two  forty,"  he  announced,  apologetically.  "You 
see,  we  usually  have  Mrs.  Finn.  She  knows  us 
and  I  felt  sure  she'd  wait  until  next  time.  If  you 
give  me  your  address  I  can  send  you  the  difference 
to-morrow." 

She  tossed  back  her  head.  "Nothing  doing!"  she 
retorted.  "I  don't  give  a  damn  what  you  thought. 
I  want  my  money  now  or,  by  Gawd,  I'll  start 
something!" 

Her  voice  had  risen  sharply.  Starratt  was  sure 
that  everybody  could  hear. 

"I  haven't  got  three  dollars,"  he  insisted,  in  a 
low  voice.  "Can't  you  see  that  I  haven't?" 

"Ask  your  wife,  then." 

"She  hasn't  a  cent.  ...  I  should  have  cashed  a 
check  to-day,  but  I  forgot.  .  .  .  You  forget  things 
sometimes,  don't  you?" 

He  was  conscious  that  his  voice  had  drawn  out 
in  a  snuffling  appeal,  but  he  simply  had  to  placate 
this  female  ogress  in  some  way. 

"Ask  your  swell  friends,  then." 

"Why,  I  can't  do  that.  ...  I  don't  know  them 
well  enough.  This  is  the  first  time — " 

She  cut  him  short  with  a  snap  of  her  fingers. 
"You  don't  know  me,  either  .  .  .  and  I  don't  know 
you.  That's  the  gist  of  the  whole  thing.  If  you 
can  ask  a  strange  woman  who's  done  an  honest 


BROKEN  TO  THE  PLOW  21 

night's  work  to  wait  for  her  money,  you  can  ask 
a  strange  man  to  lend  you  sixty  cents.  .  .  .  And, 
what's  more,  I'll  wait  right  here  until  you  do!" 

"Well,  wait  then!"  he  flung  out,  suddenly,  as  he 
pocketed  the  silver. 

He  kicked  open  the  swinging  door  and  gained  the 
dining  room.  She  followed  close  upon  his  heels. 

"Oh,  I  know  your  kind!"  he  heard  her  spitting 
out  at  him.  "You're  a  cheap  skate  trying  to  put 
up  a  front!  But  you  won't  get  by  with  me,  not 
if  I  know  it!  .  .  .  You  come  through  with  three 
dollars  or  I'll  wreck  this  joint!" 

A  crash  followed  her  harangue.  Starratt  turned. 
A  tray  of  Haviland  cups  and  saucers  lay  in  a  shat 
tered  heap  upon  the  floor. 

He  raised  a  threatening  finger  at  her.  "Will 
you  be  good  enough  to  leave  this  house!"  he 
commanded. 

She  thrust  a  red-knuckled  fist  into  his  face.  '  'Not 
much  I  won't!"  she  defied  him,  swinging  her  head 
back  and  forth. 

He  fell  back  sharply.  What  was  he  to  do?  He 
couldn't  kick  her  out.  .  .  .  He  heard  a  chair 
scraped  back  noisily  upon  the  hardwood  floor  of  the 
living  room.  Presently  Hilmer  stood  at  his  side. 

"Let  me  handle  her!"  Hilmer  said,  quietly. 

Starratt  gave  a  gesture  of  assent. 

His  guest  took  one  stride  toward  the  obstreperous 
female.  "Get  out!  Understand?" 

She  stopped  the  defiant  seesawing  of  her  head. 

"Wot  in  hell  ..."  she  was  beginning,  but  her 


22  BROKEN  TO  THE  PLOW 

voice    suddenly    broke    into    tearful    blubbering. 
"I'm  a  poor,  lone  widder  woman — " 

He  took  her  arm  and  gave  her  a  significant  shove. 

"Get  out!"  he  repeated,  with  brief  emphasis. 

She  cast  a  look  at  him,  half  despair  and  half 
admiration.  He  pointed  to  the  door.  She  went. 

Hilmer  laughed  and  regained  the  living  room. 
Starratt  hesitated. 

"I  guess  I'd  better  pick  up  the  mess,"  he  said, 
with  an  attempt  at  nonchalance. 

Nobody  made  any  reply.  He  bent  over  the 
litter.  Above  the  faint  tinkle  of  shattered  porce 
lain  dropping  upon  the  lacquered  tray  he  heard  his 
wife's  voice  cloying  the  air  with  unpleasant  sweet 
ness  as  she  said: 

"Oh  yes,  Mr.  Hilmer,  you  were  telling  us  about 
the  time  you  fought  a  man  with  a  dirk  knife  .'.  ... 
for  a  half  loaf  of  bread." 


CHAPTER  II 

WHEN    the    Kilmers    left,    about    half    past 
,  eleven,    Starratt   went    down    to    the    curb 
with  them,  on  the  pretext  of  looking  at  Kilmer's 
new  car.     It  proved  to  be  a  very  late  and  very 
luxurious  model. 

-  "Is  it  insured?'*  asked  Starratt,  as  he  lifted 
Mrs.  Kilmer  in. 

"What  a  hungry  bunch  you  insurance  men  are!" 
Hilmer  returned.  "You're  the  fiftieth  man  that's 
asked  me  that." 

Starratt  flushed.  The  business  end  of  his  sug 
gestion  had  been  the  last  thing  in  his  mind.  He 
managed  to  voice  a  commonplace  protest,  and 
Hilmer,  taking  his  place  at  the  wheel,  said: 

"Come  in  and  talk  it  over  sometime.  .  .  .  Per 
haps  you  can  persuade  me." 

"  Starratt  smiled  pallidly  and  the  car  shot  forward. 
He  watched  it  out  of  sight.  Instead  of  going  back 
into  the  house  he  walked  aimlessly  down  the  block. 
He  had  no  objective  beyond  a  desire  to  kill  the  time 
and  give  Helen  a  chance  to  retire  before  he  returned. 
He  wasn't  in  a  mood  for  talking. 

It  was  not  an  unusual  thing  for  him  to  take  a 
stroll  before  turning  in,  and  habit  led  him  along  a 
beaten  path.  He  always  found  it  fascinating  to 


24  BROKEN  TO   THE  PLOW 

dip  down  the  Hyde  Street  hill  toward  Lombard 
Street,  where  he  could  glimpse  both  the  bay  and 
the  opposite  shore.  Then,  he  liked  to  pass  the 
old-fashioned  gardens  spilling  the  mingled  scent 
of  heliotrope  and  crimson  sage  into  the  lap  of 
night.  There  was  something  fascinating  and  mel 
ancholy  about  this  venerable  quarter  that  had  been 
spared  the  ravages  of  fire  .  .  .  overlooked,  as  it 
were,  by  the  relentless  flames,  either  in  pity  or 
contempt.  There  had  been  marvelous  tales  con 
cerning  this  section's  escape  from  the  holocaust  of 
1906,  when  San  Francisco  had  been  shaken  by 
earthquake  and  shriveled  by  flames.  One  house 
had  been  saved  by  a  crimson  flood  of  wine  siphoned 
from  its  fragrant  cellar,  another  by  pluck  and  a 
garden  hose,  a  third  by  quickly  hewn  branches  of 
eucalyptus  and  cypress  piled  against  the  outside 
walls  as  a  screen  to  the  blistering  heat.  Trees  and 
hedges  and  climbing  honeysuckle  had  contributed, 
no  doubt,  to  the  defense  of  these  relics  of  a  more 
genial  day,  but  the  dogged  determination  of  their 
owners  to  save  their  old  homes  at  any  cost  must 
have  been  the  determining  factor,  Starratt  had 
often  thought,  as  he  lingered  before  the  old  picket 
fences,  in  an  attempt  to  revive  his  memories  of 
other  days.  He  could  not  remember,  of  course, 
quite  back  to  the  time  when  the  Hyde  Street  hill 
had  been  in  an  opulent  heyday,  but  the  flavor  of  its 
quality  had  trickled  through  to  his  generation. 
This  was  the  section  where  his  mother  had  lan 
guished  in  the  prim  gloom  of  her  lamp-shaded 


BROKEN   TO   THE  PLOW  25 

parlor  before  his  father's  discreet  advances.  The 
house  was  gone  .  .  .  replaced  by  a  bay- windowed, 
jig-sawed  horror  of  the  '8os,  but  the  garden  still 
smiled,  its  quaint  fragrance  reenforced  at  the  proper 
season  by  the  belated  blossoms  of  a  homesick  and 
wind-bitten  magnolia.  He  was  sure,  judged  by 
present-day  standards,  that  his  mother's  old  home 
must  have  been  a  very  modest,  genial  sort^of  place 
.  .  .  without  doubt  a  clapboard,  two-storied  affair 
with  a  single  wide  gable  and  a  porch  running  the 
full  length  of  the  front.  But,  in  a  day  when  young 
and  pretty  women  were  at  a  premium,  one  did  not 
have  to  live  in  a  mansion  to  attract  desirable 
suitors,  and  Fred  Starratt  had  often  heard  his 
mother  remind  his  father  without  bitterness  of  the 
catches  that  had  been  thrown  her  way.  Not  that 
Starratt,  senior,  had  been  a  bad  prospect  matri 
monially.  Quite  the  contrary.  He  had  come  from 
Boston  in  the  early  '703,  of  good  substantial  family, 
and  with  fair  looks  and  a  capacity  for  getting  on. 
Likewise,  a  chance  for  inside  tips  on  the  stock 
market,  since  he  had  elected  to  go  in  with  a  broker 
age  firm.  And  so  they  were  married,  with  all  of 
conservative  San  Francisco  at  the  First  Unitarian 
Church  to  see  the  wedding,  leavened  by  a  sprinkling 
of  the  very  rich  and  a  dash  of  the  ultrafashionable. 
Unfortunately,  the  inside  tips  didn't  pan  out  .  .  , 
absurd  and  dazzling  fortune  was  succeeded  by 
appalling  and  irretrievable  failure.  Starratt,  sen 
ior,  was  too  young  a  man  to  succumb  to  the  scurvy 
trick  of  fate,  but  he  never  quite  recovered.  Gradu- 


26  BROKEN   TO   THE  PLOW 

ally  the  Starratt  family  fell  back  a  pace.  To  the 
last  there  were  certain  of  the  old  guard  who  still 
remembered  them  with  bits  of  coveted  pasteboard 
for  receptions  or  marriages  or  anniversary  celebra 
tions  .  .  .  but  the  Starratts  became  more  and  more  a 
memory  revived  by  sentiment  and  less  and  less  a 
vital  reality. 

Fred  Starratt  used  to  speculate,  during  his  noc 
turnal  wandering  among  the  shadows  of  his  parents' 
youthful  haunts,  just  what  his  position  would  have 
been  had  these  stock-market  tips  proved  gilt  edged. 
He  tried  to  imagine  himself  the  master  of  a  splendid 
estate  down  the  peninsula — preferably  at  Hillsboro 
— possessed  of  high-power  cars  and  a  string  of  polo 
ponies  .  .  .  perhaps  even  a  steam  yacht.  .  .  . 
But  these  dazzling  visions  were  not  always  in  the 
ascendant.  There  were  times  when  a  philanthropic 
dream  moved  him  more  completely  and  he  had 
naive  and  varied  speculations  concerning  the  help 
that  he  could  have  placed  in  the  way  of  the  less 
fortunate  had  he  been  possessed  of  unlimited  means. 
Or,  again,  his  hypothetical  wealth  put  him  in  the 
way  of  the  education  that  placed  him  easily  at  the 
top  of  a  stirring  profession. 

"If  I'd  only  had  half  a  chance!"  would  escape 
him. 

This  was  a  phrase  borrowed  unconsciously  from 
his  mother.  She  was  never  bitter  nor  resentful  at 
their  profitless  tilt  with  fortune  except  as  it  had 
reacted  on  her  son. 

"You  should  have  gone  to  college,"  she  used  to 


BROKEN   TO   THE  PLOW  27 

insist,  regretfully,  summing  up  by  implication  his 
lack  of  advancement.  At  first  he  took  a  measure 
of  comfort  in  her  excuse;  later  he  came  to  be 
irritated  by  it.  And  in  moments  of  truant  self- 
candor  he  admitted  he  could  have  made  the  grade 
with  concessions  to  pride.  There  were  plenty  of 
youths  who  worked  their  way  through.  But  he 
always  had  moved  close  to  the  edge  of  affluent 
circles,  where  he  had  caught  the  cold  but  disturbing 
glow  of  their  standards.  He  left  high  school  with 
pallid  ideals  of  gentility,  ideals  that  expressed 
themselves  in  his  reasons  for  deciding  to  enter  an 
insurance  office.  Insurance,  he  argued,  was  a  nice 
business,  one  met  nice  people,  one  had  nice  hours, 
one  was  placed  in  nice  surroundings.  He  had  dis 
covered  later  that  one  drew  a  nice  salary,  too. 
Well,  at  least,  he  had  had  the  virtue  of  choosing 
without  a  very  keen  eye  for  the  financial  returns. 

Ten  years  of  being  married  to  a  woman  who 
demanded  a  nice  home  and  nice  clothes  and  a  circle 
of  nice  friends  had  done  a  great  deal  toward  making 
him  a  little  skeptical  about  the  soundness  of  his 
standards.  But  his  moments  of  uncertainty  were 
few  and  fleeting,  called  into  life  by  such  uncomfort 
able  circumstances  as  touching  old  Wetherbee  for 
money  or  putting  his  tailor  off  when  the  date  for 
his  monthly  dole  fell  due.  He  had  never  been  in 
trospective  enough  to  quite  place  himself  in  the 
social  scale,  but  when,  in  his  thought  or  conversa 
tion,  he  referred  to  people  of  the  better  class  he 
unconsciously  included  himself.  He  was  not  a 


28  BROKEN  TO   THE  PLOW 

drunken,  disorderly,  or  radical  member  of  society, 
and  he  didn't  black  boots,  or  man  a  ship,  or  sell 
people  groceries,  or  do  any  of  the  things  that  were 
done  in  overalls  and  a  soft  shirt,  therefore  it  went 
without  saying  that  he  belonged  to  the  better  class. 
That  was  synonymous  with  admitting  that  one 
kept  one's  finger  nails  clean  and  used  a  pocket 
handkerchief. 

Suddenly,  with  the  force  of  a  surprise  slap  in  the 
face,  it  had  been  borne  in  upon  him  that  he  was 
not  any  of  the  fine  things  he  imagined.  He  was 
sure  that  his  insolent  guest,  Hilmer,  had  not 
meant  to  be  disagreeable  at  the  moment  when  he 
had  said: 

11  Stiffening  the  backbone  of  the  middle  class  is 
next  to  impossible!" 

"The  middle  class"!  The  phrase  had  brought 
up  even  Helen  Starratt  with  a  round  "turn.  One 
might  have  called  them  both  peasants  with  equal 
temerity.  No,  Hilmer  had  not  made  that  point 
consciously,  and  therein  lay  its  sting. 

To-night,  as  he  accomplished  his  accustomed 
pilgrimage  to  the  tangible  shrine  of  his  ancestors, 
and  stood  leaning  against  the  gate  which  opened 
upon  the  garden  that  had  smiled  upon  his  mother's 
wooing,  he  determined  once  and  for  all  to  establish 
his  position  in  life.  .  .  .  Did  he  belong  to  the 
middle  class,  and,  granting  the  premises,  was  it  a 
condition  from  which  one  could  escape  or  a  fixed 
heritage  that  could  neither  be  abandoned  nor 
denied?  In  a  country  that  made  flamboyant 


BROKEN  TO   THE  PLOW  29 

motions  toward  democracy,  he  knew  that  the  term 
was  used  in  contempt,  if  not  reproach.  Had  the 
class  itself  brought  on  this  disesteem?  Did  it 
really  exist  and  what  defined  it?  Was  it  a  matter 
of  scant  worldly  possessions,  or  commonplace  brain 
force,  or  breeding,  or  just  an  attitude  of  mind? 
Was  it  a  term  invented  by  the  crafty  to  dash  cold 
water  upon  the  potential  unity  of  a  scattered  force  ? 
Was  it  a  scarecrow  for  frightening  greedy  and  re 
sourceful  flocks  from  a  concerted  assault  upon  the 
golden  harvests  of  privilege?  .  .  .  The  questions 
submerged  him  in  a  swift  flood.  He  did  not  know 
...  he  could  not  tell.  Unaccustomed  as  he  was  to 
thinking  in  the  terms  of  group  consciousness,  he  fell 
back,  naturally,  upon  the  personal  aspects  of  the 
case.  He  was  sure  of  one  thing — Kilmer's  con 
tempt  and  scorn.  In  what  class  did  Hilmer  place 
himself?  Above  or  below?  .  .  .  But  the  answer 
came  almost  before  it  was  framed — Hilmer  looked 
down  upon  him.  That  almost  told  the  story,  but 
not  quite.  Had  Hilmer  climbed  personally  to  upper 
circles  or  had  the  strata  in  which  he  found  him 
self  embedded  been  pushed  up  by  the  slow  process 
of  time?  Had  the  term  "middle  class"  become 
a  misnomer?  Was  it  really  on  the  lowest  level 
now?  Perhaps  it  was  .  .  .  perhaps  it  always  had 
been.  .  .  .  But  so  was  the  foundation  of  any 
structure.  Foundation?  .  .  .  The  thought  intrigued 
him,  but  only  momentarily.  Who  wanted  to  bear 
the  crushing  weight  of  arrogant  and  far-flung 
battlements? 

3 


30  BROKEN   TO   THE  PLOW 

He  retraced  his  steps,  his  thoughts  still  busy  with 
Kilmer.  Here  was  a  typical  case  of  what  America 
could  yield  to  the  nature  that  had  the  insolence  to 
ravish  her.  America  was  still  the  tawny,  primi 
tive,  elemental  jade  who  gave  herself  more  readily 
to  a  rough  embrace  than  a  soft  caress.  She  re 
served  her  favors  for  those  who  wrested  them  from 
her  .  .  .  she  had  no  patience  with  the  soft  delights 
of  persuasion.  It  was  strange  how  much  rough- 
hewn  vitality  had  poured  into  her  embrace  from 
the  moth-eaten  civilization  of  the  Old  World. 
Starratt  was  only  a  generation  removed  from  a 
people  who  had  subdued  a  wilderness  ...  he  was 
not  many  generations  removed  from  a  people  who 
wrestled  naked  with  God  for  a  whole  continent — 
that  is,  they  had  begun  to  wrestle;  the  years  that 
had  succeeded  found  them  still  eager  and  shut- 
lipped  for  the  conflict.  They  had  abandoned  the 
struggle  only  when  they  had  found  their  victory 
complete.  Naturally,  soft  days  had  followed.  Was 
eternal  conflict  the  price  of  strength?  Starratt 
found  himself  wondering.  And  was  he  a  product 
of  these  soft  days,  the  rushing  whirlwinds  of 
Heaven  stilled,  the  land  drowsy  with  the  humid 
heat  of  a  slothful  noonday?  He  had  never  thought 
of  these  things  before.  Even  when  he  had  thrilled 
to  the  vision  of  line  upon  line  of  his  comrades 
marching  away  to  the  blood-soaked  fields  of  France 
he  had  surrendered  to  a  primitive  emotion  un 
touched  by  the  poetry  of  deep  understanding. 
He  thrilled  not  because  he  knew  that  these  people 


BROKEN   TO   THE  PLOW  31 

were  doing  the  magnificent,  the  decent  thing  .  .  . 
but  because  he  merely  felt  it.  He  had  his  faiths, 
but  he  had  not  troubled  to  prove  them  ...  he  had 
not  troubled  even  to  doubt  them. 

His  disquiet  sharpened  all  of  his  perceptions.  He 
never  remembered  a  time  when  the  cool  fragrance 
of  the  night  had  fallen  upon  his  senses  with  such  a 
personal  caress.  He  had  come  out  into  its  starlit 
presence  flushed  with  narrow,  sordid  indignation 
. .  .  smarting  under  the  trivial  lashes  which  insolence 
and  circumstance  had  rained  upon  his  vanity.  His 
walk  in  the  dusky  silence  had  not  stilled  his  restless 
ness,  but  it  had  given  his  impatience  a  larger  scope 
.  .  .  and  as  he  stood  for  one  last  backward  glimpse 
at  the  twinkling  magnificence  of  this  February 
night  he  felt  stirred  by  almost  heroic  rancors. 
The  city  lay  before  him  in  crouched  somnolence, 
ready  to  leap  into  life  at  the  first  flush  of  dawn, 
and,  in  the  chilly  breath  of  virgin  spring,  little 
truant  warmths  and  provocative  perfumes  stirred 
the  night  with  subtle  prophecies  of  summer. 

His  exaltation  persisted  even  after  he  had  turned 
the  key  in  his  own  door  to  find  the  light  still 
blazing,  betraying  the  fact  of  Helen's  wakeful 
presence.  He  dallied  over  the  triviality  of  hanging 
up  his  hat. 

She  was  reading  when  he  gained  the  threshold 
of  the  tiny  living  room.  At  the  sound  of  his  foot 
steps  she  flung  aside  the  magazine  in  her  hand. 
Her  thick  brows  were  drawn  together  in  insolent 
impatience. 


32  BROKEN   TO   THE  PLOW 

"Oh,"  he  exclaimed,  inadequately,  "I  thought 
you'd  be  asleep!" 

"Asleep?"  she  queried,  in  a  voice  that  cut  him 
with  its  swift  stroke.  "You  didn't  fancy  that  I 
could  compose  myself  that  quickly  .  .  .  after 
everything  that's  happened  to-night  .  .  .  did  you? 
I've  been  humiliated  more  than  once  in  my  life, 
but  never  quite  so  badly.  Uncalled  for,  too  .  .  . 
that's  the  silly  part  of  it." 

He  stood  motionless  in  the  doorway.  "I'm 
sorry  I  forgot  the  money,"  he  returned,  dully. 
"But  it's  all  past  and  gone  now.  And  I  think  the 
Kilmers  understood." 

"Yes  .  .  .  they  understood.  That's  another 
humiliating  thing."  She  laughed  tonelessly.  "It 
must  be  amusing  to  watch  people  like  us  attempting 
to  be  somebody  and  do  something  on  an  income 
that  can't  be  stretched  far  enough  to  pay  a  sloppy 
maid  her  wages." 

It  was  not  so  much  what  she  said,  but  her  manner 
that  chilled  him  to  sudden  cold  anger.  "Well  .  .  . 
you  know  our  income,  down  to  the  last  penny.  .  .  . 
You  know  just  how  much  I've  overdrawn  this 
month,  too.  Why  do  you  invite  strangers  to  dinner 
under  such  conditions?" 

She  rose,  drawing  herself  up  to  an  arrogant 
height.  "I  invite  them  for  your  sake,"  she  said, 
with  slow  emphasis.  "If  you  played  your  cards 
well  you  might  get  in  right  with  Hilmer.  He's 
a  big  man." 


BROKEN   TO   THE  PLOW  33 

"Yes,"  he  flung  back,  dryly,  "and  a  damned  in 
solent  one,  too." 

"He  has  his  faults,"  she  defended.  "He's  not 
polished,  but  he's  forceful."  She  turned  a  malev 
olent  smile  upon  her  husband.  "When  he  told 
that  drunken  servant  girl  to  go,  she  went!" 

Starratt  could  feel  the  rush  of  blood  dyeing  his 
temples.  "That's  just  in  his  line!"  he  sneered. 
"He's  taken  degrading  orders,  and  so  he  knows 
how  to  give  them.  ...  He  may  have  money  now, 
but  he  hasn't  always  been  so  fortunate.  I've  been 
short  of  funds  in  my  day,  but  I  never  fought  with 
a  dirk  for  a  half  loaf  of  bread.  .  .  .  You've  heard 
the  story  of  his  life.  .  .  .  What  has  he  got  to  make 
him  proud?" 

"Just  that  .  .  .  he's  pulled  himself  out  of  it. 
While  we  ...  Tell  me,  where  are  we  ?  Where  will 
we  be  ten  years  from  now?  .  .  .  Twenty?  Why 
aren't  you  doing  something? .  .  .  Everybody  else  is." 

He  folded  his  arms  and  leaned  against  the  door 
way.  "Perhaps  I  am,"  he  said,  quietly.  "You 
don't  know  everything." 

She  made  a  movement  toward  him.  He  stepped 
aside  to  let  her  pass. 

"What  can  you  do?"  she  taunted  as  she  swept 
out  of  the  room. 

He  stood  for  a  moment  dazed  at  the  sudden  and 
unexpected  budding  of  her  scorn.  He  heard  her 
slam  the  door  of  the  bedroom.  He  went  over  to 
the  chair  from  which  she  had  risen  and  dropped 
into  it,  shading  his  eyes. 


34  BROKEN   TO   THE  PLOW 

The  clock  in  the  hallway  was  chiming  two  when 
the  bedroom  door  opened  again. 

"Aren't  you  coming  to  bed?"  he  heard  his  wife's 
voice  call  with  sharp  irritation. 

"No,"  he  answered. 


CHAPTER  III 

IT  was  extraordinary  how  wide  awake  Fred 
Starratt  felt  next  morning.  He  was  full  of 
tingling  reactions  to  the  sharp  chill  of  disillusion 
ment.  At  the  breakfast  table  he  met  his  wife's 
advances  with  an  air  of  tolerant  aloofness.  In  the 
past,  the  first  moves  toward  adjusting  a  misunder 
standing  had  come  usually  from  him.  He  had  an 
aptitude  for  kindling  the  fires  of  domestic  har 
mony,  but  he  had  discovered  overnight  the  futility 
of  fanning  a  hearthstone  blaze  when  the  flue  was 
choked  so  completely.  Before  him  lay  the  task  of 
first  correcting  the  draught.  Temporary  genialities 
had  no  place  in  his  sudden,  bleak  speculations. 
Helen  shirred  his  eggs  to  a  turn,  pressed  the  second 
cup  of  coffee  on  him,  browned  him  a  fresh  slice  of 
toast  ...  he  suffered  her  favors,  but  he  was  un 
moved  by  them.  They  did  not  even  annoy  him. 
When  he  kissed  her  good-by  he  felt  the  relaxation 
of  her  body  against  his,  as  she  stood  for  a  moment 
languishing  in  provocative  surrender.  He  put  her 
aside  sharply.  Her  caress  had  a  pew  quality  which 
irritated  him. 

Outside,  the  morning  spread  its  blue-gold  tail  in 
wanton  splendor.  February  in  San  Francisco! 
Fred  Starratt  drew  in  a  deep  breath  and  wondered 


36  BROKEN  TO   THE  PLOW 

where  else  in  the  whole  world  one  could  have  bet 
tered  that  morning  at  any  season  of  the  year. 
Like  most  San  Franciscans,  he  had  never  flown 
very  far  afield,  but  he  was  passionate  in  his  belief 
that  his  native  city  "had  it  on  any  of  them,"  to 
use  his  precise  term.  And  he  was  resentful  to  a 
degree  at  any  who  dared  in  his  presence  to  estab 
lish  other  claims  or  to  even  suggest  another  prefer 
ence.  He  looked  forward  to  New  York  as  an 
experience,  but  never  as  a  goal.  No,  San  Francisco 
was  good  enough  for  him ! 

He  felt  the  same  conviction  this  morning,  but  a 
vague  gypsying  stirred  his  blood  also,  and  a 
wayfaring  urge  swept  him.  The  sky  was  inde 
scribably  blue,  washed  clean  by  a  moist  January 
that  had  drenched  the  hills  to  lush-green  life.  The 
bay  lay  in  a  sapphire  drowse,  flecked  by  idle- 
winged  argosies,  unfolding  their  storm-soaked  sails 
to  the  caressing  sunlight.  Soaring  high  above 
the  placid  gulls,  an  airplane  circled  and  dipped  like 
a  huge  dragon  fly  in  nuptial  flight.  Through  the 
Golden  Gate,  shrouded  in  the  delicate  mists 
evoked  by  the  cool  night,  an  ocean  liner  glided  with 
arrogant  assurance. 

From  the  last  vantage  point,  before  he  slipped 
townward  to  his  monotonous  duties,  Starratt  stood, 
shading  his  eyes,  watching  the  stately  exit  of  this 
maritime  giant.  This  was  a  morning  for  starting 
adventure  ...  for  setting  out  upon  a  quest!  .  .  . 
He  had  been  stirred  before  to  such  Homeric  long 
ings  .  .  .  spring  sunshine  could  always  prick  his 


BROKEN  TO   THE  PLOW  37 

blood  with  sharp-pointed  desire.  But  to-day  there 
was  a  poignant  melancholy  in  his  flair  for  a  wider 
horizon.  He  was  touched  by  weariness  as  well  as 
longing.  He  was  like  a  pocket  hunter  whose  previ 
ous  burrowings  had  beguiled  him  with  flashing 
grains  that  proved  valueless.  He  would  not 
abandon  his  search,  but  he  must  pack  up  and 
move  on  to  new,  uncertain,  unproved  ground. 
And  he  felt  all  the  weight  of  hidden  and  heart 
breaking  perils  with  which  his  spiritual  faring 
forth  must  of  necessity  be  hedged. 

At  the  corner  of  California  and  Montgomery 
streets  he  met  the  tide  of  nine-o'clock  commuters 
surging  toward  the  insurance  offices  and  banks. 
His  widened  vision  suddenly  contracted.  Middle 
class!  The  phrase  leaped  forward  from  the  flock 
mind  which  this  standardized  concourse  diffused. 
In  many  of  the  faces  he  read  the  potentialities  of 
infinite  variety,  smothered  by  a  dull  mask  of  con 
formity.  What  a  relief  if  but  one  in  that  vast 
flood  would  go  suddenly  mad!  He  tried  fantas 
tically  to  picture  the  effect  upon  the  others — the 
momentary  cowardice  and  braveries  that  such  an 
event  would  call  into  life.  For  a  few  brief  moments 
certain  personalities  and  acts  would  stand  out 
sharply  glorified,  like  grains  of  dust  dancing  in  the 
slanting  rays  of  the  sun.  Then,  the  angle  of  yellow 
light  restored  to  white  normality,  the  whirling 
particles  would  drift  back  into  their  colorless 
oblivion. 

For  a  moment  he  had  a  taste  of  desire  for  un- 


3  8  BROKEN   TO   THE  PLOW 

springing  power.  If  he  could  but  be  the  wind  to 
shake  these  dry  reeds  of  custom  into  a  semblance 
of  life !  .  .  .  One  by  one  they  passed  him  with  an  air 
of  growing  preoccupation  .  .  .  each  step  was  carry 
ing  them  nearer  to  the  day's  pallid  slavery,  and  an 
unconscious  sense  of  their  genteel  serfdom  seemed 
gradually  to  settle  on  them.  There  were  no  bent 
nor  broken  nor  careworn  toilers  among  this  drab 
mass  .  .  .  the  stamp  of  long  service  here  was 
a  withered,  soul-quenched  gentility  that  came  of 
accepting  life  instead  of  struggling  against  it. 

Gradually  the  temper  of  the  crowd  communicated 
itself  to  him.  It  was  time  to  descend  from  his 
speculative  heights  and  face  the  problems  of  his 
workday  world.  He  turned  sharply  toward  his 
office.  Young  Brauer  was  just  mounting  the  steps. 

"Well,  what's  new?"  Brauer  threw  out,  genially. 

"Not  a  thing  in  the  world!"  escaped  Starratt. 

They  went  into  the  office  together. 

Old  Wetherbee  was  carrying  his  cash  book  out  of 
the  safe.  The  old  man  smiled.  He  was  usually 
in  good  humor  early  in  the  morning. 

"Well,  what's  new?"  he  inquired,  gayly. 

"Not  a  thing  in  the  world!"  they  chimed,  almost 
in  chorus. 

At  the  rear  of  the  office  they  slipped  on  their 
office  coats.  Brauer  took  a  comb  from  his  pocket 
and  began  carefully  to  define  the  part  in  his  already 
slick  hair.  Starratt  went  forward. 

In  the  center  of  the  room  the  chief  stenographer 
stood,  putting  her  formidable  array  of  pencils 


BROKEN   TO   THE  PLOW  39 

through  the  sharpener.  She  glanced  up  at  Starratt 
with  a  complacent  smile. 

"Oh,  good  morning,  Mr.  Starratt!"  she  purred, 
archly.  "What's  new  with  you?" 

"Not  a  thing  in  the  world,"  he  answered,  ironi 
cally,  and  he  began  to  arrange  some  memoranda  in 
one  of  the  wire  baskets  on  his  desk.  ...  At  nine 
thirty  the  boy  brought  him  his  share  of  the  mail 
from  the  back  office,  and  in  ten  minutes  he  was 
deeply  absorbed  in  sorting  the  "daily  reports" 
from  the  various  agencies.  He  worked  steadily, 
interrupted  by  an  occasional  phone  call,  an  order 
from  the  chief  clerk,  the  arrival  and  departure  of 
business  associates  and  clients.  Above  the  hum 
of  subdued  office  conversation  the  click  of  type 
writing  machines  and  the  incessant  buzzing  of  the 
desk  telephones,  he  was  conscious  of  hearing  the 
same  question  repeated  with  monotonous  fidelity: 

"Hello!    What's  new  with  you?" 

And  as  surely,  either  through  his  own  lips  or 
the  lips  of  another,  the  identical  reply  always  came : 

"Not  a  thing  in  the  world!" 

At  half  past  eleven  he  stopped  deliberately  and 
stood  for  a  moment,  nervously  fingering  his  tie. 
He  was  thinking  about  the  course  of  action  that 
he  had  decided  upon  in  that  long,  unusual  vigil 
of  the  night  before.  His  uncertainty  lasted  until 
the  remembrance  of  his  wife's  scornful  question 
swept  over  him: 

"Why  aren't  you  doing  something?  .  .  .  Every 
body  else  is!" 


40  BROKEN  TO  THE  PLOW 

But  it  was  the  answer  he  had  made  that  com 
mitted  him  irrevocably  to  his  future  course: 

"Perhaps  I  am.     You  don't  know  everything." 

He  had  felt  a  sense  of  fatality  bound  up  in  these 
words  of  defiant  pretense,  once  they  had  escaped 
him  ...  a  fatality  which  the  blazing  contempt 
of  his  wife's  retort  had  emphasized.  Even  now  his 
cheeks  burned  with  the  memory  of  that  unleashed 
insult : 

" What  can  you  do?" 

No,  there  was  no  turning  back  now.  His  own 
self-esteem  could  not  deny  so  clear-cut  a  challenge. 

He  called  his  assistant.  "I  wish  you'd  go  into 
the  private  office  and  see  if  Mr.  Ford  is  at  lei 
sure,"  he  ordered.  "I  want  to  have  a  talk  with 
him." 

The  youth  came  back  promptly.  "He  says  for 
you  to  come,"  was  his  brief  announcement. 

Fred  Starratt  stared  a  moment  and,  recovering 
himself,  walked  swiftly  in  upon  his  employer. 
Mr.  Ford  was  signing  insurance  policies. 

"Well,  Starratt,"  he  said,  looking  up  smilingly, 
"what's  the  good  word?  .  .  .  What's  new  with 
you?" 

Starratt  squared  himself  desperately.  "Nothing 
.  .  .  except  I  find  it  impossible  to  live  upon  my 
salary." 

Mr.  Ford  laid  aside  his  pen.  "Oh,  that's  un 
fortunate!  .  .  .  Suppose  you  sit  down  and  we'll 
talk  it  over." 

Starratt  dropped  into  the  nearest  seat. 


BROKEN   TO   THE  PLOW  41 

Mr.  Ford  let  his  eyeglasses  dangle  from  their  cord. 
He  was  not  in  the  least  disturbed.  Indeed,  he 
seemed  to  be  approaching  the  issue  with  unqualified 
pleasure. 

"Now,  Starratt,  let's  get  at  the  root  of  the 
trouble.  ...  Of  course  you're  a  reasonable  man 
otherwise  ..." 

Starratt  smiled  ironically.  A  vivid  remembrance 
of  Kilmer's  words  flashed  over  him.  His  lip- 
curling  disdain  must  have  communicated  itself  to 
Mr.  Ford,  because  that  gentleman  hesitated,  cleared 
his  throat,  and  began  all  over  again. 

"You're  a  reasonable  man,  Starratt,  and  I  know 
that  you  have  the  interest  of  the  firm  at  heart." 

Starratt  leaned  back  in  his  seat  and  listened,  but 
he  might  have  spared  himself  the  pains.  Somehow 
he  anticipated  every  word,  every  argument,  before 
Mr.  Ford  had  a  chance  to  voice  them.  Business 
conditions  were  uncertain,  overhead  charges  ex 
traordinarily  increased,  the  loss  ratio  large  and 
bidding  fair  to  cut  their  bonus  down  to  nothing. 
Therefore  .  .  .  well,  of  course,  next  year  things 
might  be  different.  The  firm  was  hoping  that  by 
next  year  they  would  be  in  a  position  to  deal  hand 
somely  with  those  of  their  force  who  had  been 
patient.  .  .  .  Mr.  Ford  did  not  stop  there,  he  did 
not  expect  Starratt  to  take  his  word  for  anything. 
He  reached  for  a  pencil  and  pad  and  he  went  into 
a  mathematic  demonstration  to  show  just  how  near 
the  edge  of  financial  disaster  the  firm  of  Ford, 
Wetherbee  &  Co.  had  been  pushed.  Starratt 


42  BROKEN   TO   THE  PLOW 

could  not  doubt  the  figures,  and  yet  his  eyes 
traveled  instinctively  to  the  bag  of  golf  sticks  in  a 
convenient  corner.  Somehow,  nothing  in  either 
Ford's  argument  or  his  sleek  presence  irritated 
Starratt  so  much  as  these  golf  sticks.  For,  in  this 
particular  instance,  they  became  the  symbol  of  a 
self-sufficient  prosperity  whose  first  moves  toward 
economy  were  directed  at  those  who  serve.  .  .  . 
If  all  this  were  so,  why  didn't  Ford  begin  by  cutting 
down  his  own  allowance,  by  trimming  his  own 
expenses  to  the  bone?  Golf,  as  Mr.  Ford  played 
it,  was  an  expensive  luxury.  No  doubt  the  exercise 
was  beneficial,  but  puttering  about  a  garden  would 
have  done  equally.  Starratt  might  have  let  all 
this  pass.  He  was  by  heart  and  nature  and  training 
a  conservative  and  he  had  sympathy  for  the  genial 
vanities  of  life.  It  was  Ford's  final  summary, 
the  unconscious  patronage,  the  quiet,  assured  in 
solence  of  his  words,  which  gave  Starratt  his 
irrevocable  cue. 

"We  rather  look  to  men  like  you,  Starratt," 
Mr.  Ford  was  saying,  his  voice  suave  to  the  point 
of  insincerity,  "to  tide  us  over  a  crisis.  Just  now, 
when  the  laboring  element  is  running  amuck,  it's 
good  to  feel  that  the  country  has  a  large  percentage 
of  people  who  can  be  reasonable  and  understand 
another  viewpoint  except  their  own.  .  .  .  After 
everything  is  said  and  done,  in  business  a  man's 
first  loyalty  is  to  the  firm  he  works  for." 

"Why?"  Starratt  threw  out  sharply. 

Ford's  pallid  eyes  widened  briefly.     "I  think  the 


BROKEN   TO   THE  PLOW  43 

answer  is  obvious,  Starratt.    Don't  you?   The  hand 
that  feeds  a  man  is  .  .  . " 

''Feeds?    That  may  work  both  ways." 

"I  don't  quite  understand." 

Starratt's  glance  traveled  toward  the  golf  sticks. 
"Well,  it  seems  to  me  it's  a  case  of  one  man  cut 
ting  down  on  necessities  to  provide  another  with 
luxuries."  He  hated  himself  once  he  had  said  it. 
It  outraged  his  own  sense  of  breeding. 

Mr.  Ford  shoved  the  pencil  and  pad  to  one  side. 
"A  parlor  radical,  eh?  ...  Well,  this  from  you  is 
surprising!  ...  If  there  was  one  man  in  my 
employ  whom  I  counted  on,  it  was  you.  You've 
been  with  me  over  fifteen  years  .  .  .  began  as 
office  boy,  as  I  remember.  And  in  all  that  time 
you've  never  even  asked  for  a  privilege.  ...  I'm 
sorry  to  see  such  a  fine  record  broken!" 

Yesterday  Starratt  would  have  agreed  with  him, 
but  now  he  felt  moved  to  indignation  and  shame  at 
Ford's  summary  of  his  negative  virtues.  He  had 
been  born  with  a  voice  and  he  had  never  lifted  it 
to  ask  for  his  rights,  much  less  a  favor.  No  wonder 
Hilmer  could  sneer  and  Helen  Starratt  cut  him 
with  the  fine  knife  of  her  scorn !  The  words  began 
to  tumble  to  his  lips.  They  came  in  swirling  flood. 
He  lost  count  of  what  he  was  saying,  but  the  angry 
white  face  of  his  employer  foreshadowed  the  inevi 
table  end  of  this  interview.  He  gave  his  rancor 
its  full  scope  .  .  .  protests,  defiance,  insults,  even, 
heaping  up  in  a  formidable  pile. 

4 'You  ask  me  to  be  patient,"  he  flared,  "because 


44  BROKEN   TO   THE  PLOW 

you  think  I'm  a  reasonable,  rational,  considerate 
beast  that  can  be  broken  to  any  harness ! "  He  recog 
nized  Kilmer's  words,  but  he  swept  on.  "If  you 
were  in  a  real  flesh-and-blood  business  you'd  have 
felt  the  force  of  things  .  .  .  you'd  have  had  men  with 
guts  to  deal  with  .  .  „  you'd  have  had  a  brick  or 
two  heaved  into  your  plate-glass  window.  A  friend 
of  mine  said  last  night  that  potting  clerks  was  as 
sickening  as  a  rabbit  drive.  He  was  right,  it  is 
sickening!" 

Mr.  Ford  raised  his  hand.  Starratt  obeyed  with 
silence. 

"I'm  sorry,  Starratt,  to  see  you  bitten  with  this 
radical  disease.  ...  Of  course,  you  can't  stay  on 
here,  after  this.  Your  confidence  in  us  seems  to 
have  been  destroyed  and  it  goes  without  saying 
that  my  confidence  in  you  has  been  seriously  under 
mined.  We'll  give  you  a  good  recommendation 
and  a  month's  salary.  .  .  .  But  you  had  better 
leave  at  once.  A  man  in  your  frame  of  mind  isn't  a 
good  investment  for  Ford,  Wetherbee  &  Co." 

Starratt  was  still  quivering  with  unleashed 
heroics.  "The  recommendation  is  coming  to  me," 
he  returned,  coldly.  "The  month's  salary  isn't. 
I'll  take  what  I've  earned  and  not  a  penny  more." 

"Very  well;  suit  yourself  there." 

Mr.  Ford  reached  for  his  pen  and  began  where  he 
had  left  off  at  Starratt 's  entrance  .  .  .  signing 
insurance  policies.  .  .  .  Starratt  rose  and  left  with 
out  a  word.  The  interview  was  over. 

Already,   in   that   mysterious  way   with   which 


BROKEN   TO   THE  PLOW  45 

secrets  flash  through  an  office  with  lightninglike 
rapidity,  a  hint  of  Starratt's  brush  with  Ford  was 
illuminating  the  dull  routine. 

"I  think  he's  going  into  business  for  himself, 
or  something,"  Starratt  heard  the  chief  stenog 
rapher  say  in  a  stage  whisper  to  her  assistant,  as  he 
passed. 

And  at  his  desk  he  found  Brauer  waiting  to  way 
lay  him  with  a  bid  for  lunch,  his  little  ferret  eyes 
attempting  to  confirm  the  general  gossip  flying 
about. 

Starratt  had  an  impulse  to  refuse,  but  instead  he 
said,  as  evenly  as  he  could : 

"All  right  .  .  .  sure!     Let's  go  now!" 

Brauer  felt  like  eating  oysters,  so  they  decided 
to  go  up  to  one  of  the  stalls  in  the  California  Market 
for  lunch.  He  was  in  an  expansive  mood. 

"Let's  have  beer,  too,"  he  insisted,  as  they  seated 
themselves.  "After  the  first  of  July  they'll  slap 
on  war-time  prohibition  and  it  won't  be  so  easy." 

Starratt  acquiesced.  He  usually  didn't  drink 
anything  stronger  than  tea  with  the  noonday  meal, 
because  anything  even  mildly  alcoholic  made  him 
l°ggy  and  unfit  for  work,  but  the  thought  that 
to-day  he  was  free  intrigued  him. 

The  waiter  brought  the  usual  plate  of  shrimps 
that  it  was  customary  to  serve  with  an  oyster  order, 
and  Starratt  and  Brauer  fell  to.  A  glass  of  beer 
foamed  with  enticing  amber  coolness  before  each 
plate.  Brauer  reached  over  and  lifted  his  glass. 


46  BROKEN   TO   THE  PLOW 

"Well,  here's  success  to  crime!"  he  said,  with 
pointed  facetiousness. 

Starratt  ignored  the  lead.  He  had  never  liked 
Brauer  and  he  did  not  find  this  sharp-nosed  in- 
quisitiveness  to  his  taste.  He  began  to  wonder 
why  he  had  come  with  him.  Lunching  with  Brauer 
had  never  been  a  habit.  Occasionally,  quite  by 
accident,  they  managed  to  achieve  the  same 
restaurant  and  the  same  table,  but  it  was  not  a 
matter  of  prearrangement.  Indeed,  Starratt  had 
always  prided  himself  at  his  ability  to  keep  Brauer 
at  arm's  length.  A  subtle  change  had  occurred. 
Was  it  possible  that  a  borrowed  five-dollar  bill 
could  so  reshape  a  relationship?  Well,  he  would 
pay  him  back  once  he  received  his  monthly  salary, 
and  get  over  with  the  obligation.  His  monthly 
salary?  .  .  .  Suddenly  it  broke  over  him  that  he 
had  received  the  last  full  month's  salary  that  he 
would  ever  get  from  Ford,  Wetherbee  &  Co.  It 
was  the  2oth  of  February,  which  meant,  roughly, 
that  about  two  thirds  of  his  one  hundred  and  fifty 
dollars  would  be  coming  to  him  if  he  still  held  to 
his  haughty  resolve  to  take  no  more  than  he  had 
earned.  Two  thirds  of  one  hundred  and  fifty,  less 
sixty-odd  dollars  overdrawn.  ...  He  was  recalled 
from  his  occupation  by  Brauer's  voice  rising  above 
the  clatter  of  carelessly  flung  crockery  and 
tableware. 

"Is  it  true  you're  leaving  the  first  of  the  month?" 

He  liked  Brauer  better  for  this  direct  question, 
although  the  man's  presumption  still  rankled. 


BROKEN   TO   THE  PLOW  47 

"I'm  leaving  to-day,"  he  announced,  dryly,  not 
without  a  feeling  of  pride. 

"What  are  you  going  to  do?" 

"I  haven't  decided.  .  .  .  Perhaps  ...  I  don't 
know  ...  I  may  become  an  insurance  broker." 

Brauer  picked  through  the  mess  in  his  plate  for 
an  unshelled  shrimp.  "That  takes  money,"  he 
ventured,  dubiously. 

"Oh,  not  a  great  deal,"  Starratt  returned,  ruffling 
a  trifle.  ' '  Office  rent  for  two  or  three  months  before 
the  premiums  begin  to  come  in  ...  a  little  capital 
to  furnish  up  a  room.  I  might  even  get  some  one 
to  give  me  a  desk  in  his  office  until  I  got  started. 
It's  done,  you  know." 

Brauer  neatly  extracted  a  succulent  morsel  from 
its  scaly  sheath.  "Don't  you  think  it's  better  to 
put  up  a  front?"  he  inquired.  "If  you've  got  a 
decent  office  and  your  own  phone  and  a  good 
stenographer  it  makes  an  impression  when  you're 
going  after  business.  .  .  .  Why  don't  you  go  in 
with  somebody?  .  .  .  There  ought  to  be  plenty  of 
fellows  ready  to  put  up  their  money  against  your 
time." 

"Who,  for  instance?"  escaped  Starratt,  in 
voluntarily. 

Brauer  shoved  his  plate  of  husked  shrimps  to 
one  side.  "Take  me.  I've  saved  up  quite  a  bit, 
and..." 

The  waiter  broke  in  upon  them  with  the  oysters. 

Starratt  knitted  his  brows.  "Well,  why  not?" 
was  his  mental  calculation. 


48  BROKEN   TO   THE  PLOW 

Brauer  ordered  two  more  pints  of  beer. 

Starratt  had  leaned  at  first  toward  keeping  his 
business  venture  a  secret  from  Helen.  But  in  the 
end  a  boyish  eagerness  to  sun  himself  in  the  warmth 
of  her  surprise  unlocked  his  reserve. 

"I've  quit  Ford-Wetherbee,"  he  said,  quietly, 
that  night,  as  she  was  seating  herself  after  bringing 
on  the  dessert. 

He  had  never  seen  such  a  startled  look  flash 
across  her  face. 

' '  What !     Did  you  have  trouble  ? ' ' 

He  decided  swiftly  not  to  give  her  the  details. 
He  didn't  want  her  to  think  that  any  outside  in 
fluence  had  pushed  him  into  action. 

"Oh  no!  .  .  ."  he  drawled,  lightly.  "I've  been 
thinking  of  leaving  for  some  time.  Working  for 
another  person  doesn't  get  you  anywhere." 

He  could  see  that  she  was  puzzled,  perhaps  a 
little  annoyed.  Last  night  in  a  malicious  moment 
she  had  been  quite  ready  to  sneer  at  her  husband's 
inactivity,  but  now,  with  the  situation  a  matter  of 
practice  rather  than  theory,  Starratt  felt  that  she 
was  having  her  misgivings.  A  suggestion  of  a  frown 
hovered  above  her  black  eyebrows. 

"You  can't  mean  that  you're  going  into  busi 
ness!"  she  returned,  as  she  passed  him  a  dish  of 
steaming  pudding. 

There  was  a  suggestion  of  last  night's  scorn  in  her 
incredulity. 

"No?  .  .  .  And  why  not?" 


BROKEN   TO   THE  PLOW  49 

She  cast  a  sidelong  glance  at  him.  "That  takes 
money,"  she  objected. 

He  knew  now,  from  her  tone,  what  was  behind 
the  veil  of  her  intimations  and  he  found  a  curious 
new  pleasure  in  watching  her  squirm. 

"Oh,  well,"  he  half  mused,  "I  guess  we'll  strug 
gle  through  somehow.  We've  always  managed 
to." 

She  leaned  one  elbow  heavily  on  the  table. 
' '  More  economies,  I  suppose ! ' ' 

He  had  trapped  her  too  easily!  It  was  his  turn 
to  be  cutting.  "Don't  worry!  ...  I  sha'n't  ask 
you  to  do  without  any  more  than  you've  done 
without  so  far.  If  you  can  stand  it  as  it  is  awhile 
longer,  why  ..."  He  broke  off  with  a  shrug. 

Her  eyes  swam  in  a  sudden  mist.  "You 're  not 
fair!"  she  sniffed.  "I'm  thinking  as  much  of  you 
as  I  am  of  myself.  Going  into  business  isn't  only  a 
question  of  money.  There  are  anxieties  and 
worry  .  .  .  and  .  .  .  and  ..."  She  recovered  herself 
swiftly  and  looked  at  him  with  clear,  though  re 
proachful,  eyes.  "I'm  always  willing  to  help  .  .  . 
you  know  that!" 

He  melted  at  once.  There  was  a  moment  of 
silence,  and  then  he  told  her  everything  .  .  .  about 
Brauer,  and  what  they  purposed. 

"He's  to  keep  on  at  Ford-Wetherbee's  until 
things  are  running  smoothly.  Of  course,  I'd 
rather  not  have  it  that  way,  but  he  holds  the  purse 
strings,  so  I've  got  to  make  concessions.  We  can 
get  an  office  for  twenty-five  a  month.  It  will  be 


50  BROKEN   TO   THE  PLOW 

the  salary  of  the  stenographer  that  will  count 
up." 

"When  do  you  start?" 

"To-morrow.  And  do  you  know  who  I'm  going 
after  first  thing?  .  .  .  Hilmer.  He  told  me  last 
night  to  come  around  and  talk  over  insuring  that 
car  of  his.  ...  I  don't  know  that  I'll  land 
that.  But  I  might  line  him  up  for  something  else. 
He  must  have  a  lot  of  insurance  to  place  one  way 
or  another." 

She  smiled  dubiously.  "Well,  I  wouldn't  count 
too  much  upon  Hilmer,"  she  said,  with  a  superior 
air. 

"I'm  not  counting  on  anything  or  anybody,"  he 
returned,  easily.  "Hilmer  isn't  the  only  fish  in  the 
sea." 


CHAPTER  IV 

IT  was  noon  before  Helen  Starratt  finished  her 
housework  next  morning — an  unusually  late  hour 
for  her,  but  she  had  been  preoccupied,  and  her 
movements    slow   in    consequence.     A    four-room 
apartment,  with  hardwood  floors  and  a  vacuum 
cleaner,  was  hardly  a  serious  task  for  a  full-grown 
woman,  childless,  and  with  a  vigor  that  reacted 
perfectly   to  an  ice-cold   shower  at   7   A.M.     She 
used  to  look  back  occasionally  at  the  contrast  her 
mother's  life  had  presented.     Even  with  a  servant, 
a    three-storied,    bay-windowed    house    had    not 
given  Mrs.  Somers  much  leisure  for  women's  clubs. 
The  Ladies  Aid  Society  and  a  Christmas  festival 
in  the  church  parlors  were  about  as  far  along  the 
road  of  alleged  social  service  as  the  woman  of  the 
last  generation  had  traveled.     There  was  marketing 
to  do,  and  sewing  continually  on  hand,  and  house- 
cleaning  at  stated  intervals.     In  Helen   Somers's 
old  home  the  daily  routine  had  been  as  inflexible  as 
its  ancestor's  original  Calvinistic  creed — Monday, 
washing;   Tuesday,  ironing;   Wednesday,  cleaning 
the  silver;  Thursday,  at  home  to  visitors;  Friday, 
sweeping;     Saturday,   baking;    and   Sunday,    the 
hardest  day  of  all.     For,  withal,  the  Puritan  sense  of 
observance,  that  had  not  been  utterly  swamped  by 


52  BROKEN   TO   THE  PLOW 

the  blue  and  enticing  skies  of  California,  Sunday 
was  a  feast  day,  not  in  a  lightsome  sense,  but  in  a 
dull,  heavy,  gastronomic  way,  unleavened  by  either 
wine  or  passable  wit.  On  Sunday  the  men  of  the 
family  returned  home  from  church  and  gorged. 
If  the  day  were  fine,  perhaps  everybody  save 
mother  took  a  cable-car  ride,  or  a  walk,  or  some 
thing  equally  exciting.  The  sparkle  of  environ 
ment  had  won  these  people  away  from  tombstone 
reading  and  family  prayers  as  a  Sabbath  diversion, 
but  even  California  could  not  be  expected  to  make 
over  a  bluestocking  in  an  eye's  twinkling.  Mother, 
of  course,  stayed  home  on  Sunday  to  "pick  up" 
and  get  ready  for  supper  in  the  absence  of  the 
servant  girl.  A  later  generation  had  the  grace  to 
elevate  these  slatternly  drudges  to  the  title  of 
maid,  but  a  sterner  ancestry  found  it  expedient  to 
be  more  practical  and  less  pretentious  in  its  terms. 
On  these  drab  Sundays  Helen  Somers  had  pas 
sionately  envied  the  children  of  foreign  breed,  who 
seemed  less  hedged  about  by  sabbatical  restrictions. 
Not  that  she  wished  her  family  to  be  of  the  ques 
tionable  sort  that  went  to  El  Campo  or  Shell 
Mound  Park  for  Sunday  picnics  and  returned  in 
quarrelsome  state  at  a  late  hour  smelling  of  bad 
whisky  and  worse  gin.  Nor  did  she  aspire  to  have 
sprung  from  the  Teutonic  stock  that  perpetrated 
more  respectable  but  equally  noisy  outings  in  the 
vicinity  of  Woodward's  Gardens.  But  she  had  a 
furtive  and  sly  desire  to  float  oil-like  upon  the 
surface  of  this  turbid  sea,  touching  it  at  certain 


BROKEN   TO   THE  PLOW  53 

points,  yet  scarcely  mixing  with  it.  Indeed,  this 
inclination  to  taste  the  core  of  life  without  com 
mitting  herself  the  further  indiscretion  of  swallow 
ing  it  grew  to  such  proportions  that  at  the  age  of 
fifteen  she  almost  succumbed  to  its  allurement. 
Even  at  this  late  date  she  could  recall  every  detail 
of  a  seemingly  casual  conversation  which  she  had 
held  with  the  stalwart  butcher  boy  who  came 
daily  to  the  kitchen  door  to  deliver  meat.  The 
first  day  she  merely  had  broached  the  subject 
of  Sunday  picnics;  the  second  she  had  intrigued 
him  into  giving  her  one  or  two  fleeting  details; 
the  third  day  she  held  him  captive  a  full  ten 
minutes  while  he  enlarged  upon  his  subject.  And 
so  on,  until  one  morning  he  said,  quite  directly: 

" Would  you  like  to  go  to  one?  ...  If  you  do, 
I'll  take  you." 

She  had  drawn  back  at  first  from  this  frontal 
attack,  but  in  the  end  she  decided  to  chance  the 
experience.  She  pretended  to  her  mother  that  she 
was  going  to  see  a  girl  friend  who  was  sick.  She 
met  her  crude  cavalier  at  the  ferry.  She  even 
boarded  the  boat  with  him.  At  first  he  had  been 
a  bit  constrained  and  shy,  but  soon  she  felt  the 
warm,  moist  pressure  of  his  thick-fingered  hands 
against  hers.  And  presently  his  arm  encircled  her 
waist.  With  curious  intuition  she  realized  the 
futility  of  struggling  against  him.  .  .  .  She  had  to 
admit,  in  the  end,  that  she  found  his  physical 
nearness  pleasurable.  .  .  .  She  often  had  won 
dered,  looking  back  on  that  day,  what  might  have 


54  BROKEN   TO   THE  PLOW 

happened  if  she  had  gone  through  with  this  truant 
indiscretion.  But  halfway  on  the  journey  her 
escort  had  deserted  her  momentarily  to  buy  a  cigar. 
Left  alone  upon  the  upper  deck  of  a  ferryboat, 
crowded  with  a  strident  and  raucous  company,  she 
had  felt  herself  suddenly  grow  cold,  not  with  fear, 
but  with  a  certain  haughty  and  disdainful  anger. 
These  people  were  not  her  kind!  She  had  risen 
swiftly  from  her  seat  and  hidden  discreetly  in  the 
ladies'  washroom  until  after  the  boat  had  landed 
and  was  on  its  way  back  to  the  city.  When  she 
got  home  she  found  the  house  in  confusion.  Her 
father  had  been  taken  suddenly  ill. 

"I  came  very  near  sending  to  Nellie's  for  you," 
her  mother  had  said. 

The  incident  had  taught  her  a  lesson,  but  there 
were  times  when  she  regretted  its  termination — 
when  she  was  stirred  to  a  certain  morbid  and 
profitless  speculation  as  to  what  might  have  been. 

Shortly  after  this  a  reaction  began  to  set  in  against 
the  dullness  which  certain  people  found  desirable 
in  the  observation  of  what  they  were  pleased  to  call 
with  questionable  humility  the  Lord's  Day,  and 
by  the  time  Helen  had  budded  to  womanhood  this 
new  tide  was  at  its  flood.  People,  even  piously 
inclined,  were  taking  houses  across  the  bay,  at 
Belvedere  or  Sausalito  or  Mill  Valley,  for  the 
summer.  Somehow,  one  didn't  go  to  church  during 
this  holiday.  Friends  came  over  for  Saturday  and 
Sunday  to  visit,  and  the  term  "week-end"  became 
intelligible  and  acquired  significance.  The  Somerses 


BROKEN   TO   THE  PLOW  55 

took  a  cottage  for  three  successive  seasons  in 
Belvedere — that  is,  they  spoke  of  it  as  a  cottage. 
In  reality,  it  was  the  abandoned  hulk  of  a  ferryboat 
that  had  been  converted  into  rather  uncomfortable 
quarters  and  set  up  on  the  slimy  beach.  The 
effect  of  this  \unconventional  habitation  slowly 
undermined  the  pale  ghost  of  the  Somers'  family 
tradition.  They  became  bohemian.  Instead  of 
the  lugubrious  Sunday  feast  of  thick  joints  and 
heavy  puddings,  they  began  to  make  the  acquaint 
ance  of  the  can  opener.  And  from  can  opener  to 
corkscrew  it  was  only  a  brief  step.  ...  It  was  at 
this  point  that  Helen  met  Fred  Starratt.  Quite 
naturally  the  inevitable  happened.  Moonlight 
rowing  in  the  cove  at  Belvedere,  set  to  the  tune  of 
mandolins,  was  always  providing  a  job  for  the 
parson,  and,  if  the  truth  were  told,  for  the  divorce 
courts  as  well.  It  all  had  been  pleasant  enough, 
and  normal  enough,  and  the  expected  thing. 
That's  what  young  people  always  did  if  the  proper 
setting  were  provided,  especially  when  the  moon 
kept  on  the  job. 

Helen  Starratt  had  read  about  the  thrills  that  the 
heroines  of  novels  received  from  the  mating  fever, 
but  she  had  to  confess  that  she  had  not  experienced 
anything  as  exciting  as  a  thrill  during  the  entire 
period  of  her  husband's  wooing.  She  had  felt 
satisfaction,  a  mild  triumph,  a  gratified  vanity,  if 
you  will,  but  that  was  as  far  as  her  emotional 
experience  had  gone.  After  all,  her  career  had  been 
marriage,  and  she  had  taken  the  most  likely  situa- 


56  BROKEN   TO   THE  PLOW 

tion  that  had  been  offered.  She  presumed  it  was 
the  same  when  one  graduated  from  business  college. 
You  were  expected  to  land  a  job  and  you  did. 
Sometimes  it  was  a  good  one,  and  then  again  it 
wasn't.  Looking  back,  she  conceded  that  her 
choice  had  been  fair.  Fred  Starratt  didn't  drink 
to  excess,  he  didn't  beat  or  swear  at  her,  he  didn't 
make  sarcastic  remarks  about  her  relations,  or  do 
any  of  the  things  which  anyone  who  reads  the  daily 
papers  discovers  so  many  men  do  under  provoca 
tion  or  otherwise.  But,  on  the  other  hand,  he 
hadn't  made  a  fortune  or  bought  a  car  or  given  her 
any  reason  for  feeling  compensated  for  the  lack  of 
marital  excitement.  His  friends  called  him  a  nice 
fellow — in  some  ways  as  damning  a  thing  as  one 
could  say  about  anybody — and  let  it  go  at  that. 
However,  Helen  Starratt's  vocabulary  was  just  as 
limited  when  it  came  to  characterizing  her  con 
ventional  aims  and  ambitions.  If,  occasionally, 
her  speculations  stirred  the  muddy  reaches  of 
certain  furtive  desires,  she  took  care  that  they  did 
not  become  articulate.  This  term  "nice"  included 
every  desirable  virtue.  One  married  nice  men,  and 
one  lived  in  a  nice  neighborhood,  and  one  made 
nice  acquaintances.  In  her  mother's  day  she  had 
heard  people  say : 

"I  believe  in  having  the  young  folks  identified 
with  church  work — they  meet  such  nice  people." 

And  years  later  a  friend,  attempting  to  interest 
her  in  the  activities  of  a  local  orphan  asylum,  had 
clinched  every  other  argument  by  stating,  blandly: 


BROKEN   TO   THE  PLOW  57 

"You  really  ought  to  go  in  for  it,  Helen — you've 
no  idea  what  nice  people  you  meet." 

When  America's  entry  into  the  war  brought  up 
the  question  of  Red  Cross  endeavor,  her  first 
thought  had  been : 

"I  really  ought  to  do  something,  I  suppose. 
And,  besides,  I'll  meet  lots  of  nice  people." 

Well,  she  had  met  a  lot  of  nice  people,  but  the 
only  fruitful  yield  socially  had  been  Mrs.  Hilmer. 
And  somehow  it  never  occurred  to  Helen  to  apply 
such  a  discriminating  term  as  nice  to  her  latest 
acquisition.  Mrs.  Hilmer  was  wholesome  and 
good  hearted  and  a  dear,  and  no  doubt  she  was  nice 
in  a  negative  way,  but  one  never  thought  about 
saying  so.  And  Hilmer  .  .  .  ?  No,  he  was  not 
what  one  would  call  a  nice  man,  but  he  wras  tre 
mendously  interesting  and  in  the  hands  of  the 
right  woman  .  .  .  You  see,  Mrs.  Hilmer  was  a 
good  soul,  but,  of  course,  she  didn't  quite  .  .  .  that 
is,  she  was  a  bit  old  fashioned  and  .  .  .  well,  she 
didn't  know  how,  poor  dear! 

Thus  it  was  that  over  her  household  tasks  on 
this  particular  February  morning  Helen  Starratt 
dawdled  as  her  mind  played  with  the  fiction  of 
what  Hilmer  might  become  under  the  proper 
influence.  Now,  if  she  had  married  him!  .  .  . 

It  was  all  very  well  for  Mrs.  Hilmer  to  see  that 
her  lord  and  master  was  fed  properly,  but  why 
did  she  waste  hours  over  a  custard  when  she  had 
money  enough  to  hire  it  done?  That  course  didn't 
get  either  of  them  anywhere — Hilmer  remained  at 


58  BROKEN   TO   THE  PLOW 

a  level  of  torpid  content,  and  naturally  he  looked 
down  on  his  wife  as  a  sort  of  sublimated  serv 
ant  girl  who  wasn't  always  preparing  to  leave 
and  demanding  higher  wages.  .  .  .  No,  most  men 
fell  too  easily  in  the  trap  of  their  personal  comforts. 
Even  Fred  had  become  self-satisfied.  Beyond  his 
dinner  and  paper  and  an  occasional  sober  flight  at 
the  movies  or  bridge  with  old  friends  he  didn't 
seem  to  have  any  stirring  ambitions.  That  was 
where  a  wife  came  in.  Hadn't  she  been  casting 
around  for  bait  that  would  make  Fred  rise  to 
something  new?  Hadn't  she  invited  the  Kilmers 
to  dinner  in  the  hope  that  the  two  men  would  hit 
it  off?  The  very  first  time  she  had  met  Hilmer  she 
had  thought,  "There's  a  man  that  Fred  ought  to 
know." 

She  was  perfectly  willing  to  concede  certain 
virtues  to  her  husband,  and  she  flattered  herself 
that  with  the  materials  at  her  command  she  had 
managed  to  keep  Fred  pretty  well  up  to  the  scratch. 
The  only  thing  that  had  been  lacking  was  plenty  of 
money.  If  she  had  had  one  quarter  of  Kilmer's 
income  she  would  have  evolved  a  husband  that  any 
woman  could  have  been  proud  of,  instead  of  one 
that  most  women  would  have  found  merely  satis 
factory.  .  .  .  This  was  the  way  she  had  argued 
before  her  absurd  dinner  party.  She  had  to  admit, 
after  it  was  all  over,  that  her  husband  had  managed 
to  make  her  thoroughly  ashamed  of  him.  It  was 
better  to  have  an  outrageous  husband  than  a 
ridiculous  one.  And  she  fancied  that  Hilmer  could 


BROKEN  TO   THE  PLOW  59 

be  outrageous  if  he  chose.  .  .  .  But  she  was  sure  of 
one  thing  ...  if  Hilmer  came  home  and  announced 
that  he  had  given  up  his  position  and  had  decided 
to  plunge  in  boldly  for  himself,  his  wife  would 
scarcely  give  the  matter  a  second  thought.  Hilmer 
would  carry  the  thing  through  .  .  .  some  way.  A 
man  who  could  brain  an  assailant  and  fight  for  a 
mouthful  of  bread  would  put  things  over  by  hook 
or  crook.  There  wasn't  much  chance  for  failure 
there.  But  Fred  Starratt  .  .  .  well,  he  was  apt  to 
have  some  ridiculous  scruple  or  too  keen  a  sense 
of  business  courtesy  or  a  sensitiveness  to  rebuffs. 
Take  his  passage  at  arms  with  the  drunken  maid 
...  if  he  had  thrown  her  out  promptly,  or  come  in 
and  frankly  borrowed  the  money  from  Hilmer,  it 
would  have  at  least  shown  decision. 

Of  course  she  couldn't  do  anything,  now  that 
he  was  committed  to  this  new  business  venture. 
It  was  all  very  well  for  him  to  snarl : 

"  Don't  worry.  .  .  .  I  sha'n't  ask  you  to  do  with 
out  any  more  than  youVe  done  without  so  far." 

That  was  the  lofty  way  most  men  theorized  when 
their  vanity  was  wounded.  But  she  knew  enough 
to  realize  that  if  he  failed  she  would  have  to  share 
that  failure.  Of  course,  if  Fred  could  interest 
Hilmer  .  .  .  Perhaps  she  could  help  things  along 
in  some  way  .  .  .  with  a  chance  remark  to  Mrs. 
Hilmer.  Would  it  be  better  to  cast  the  seed  more 
directly? ...  If  she  could  only  manage  to  run  across 
Hilmer — she  wouldn't  want  to  seem  to  be  putting 
in  her  oar.  .  .  .  Would  it  be  very  dreadful  if  she  were 


60  BROKEN   TO   THE  PLOW 

to  think  up  some  excuse  and  go  beard  the  lion  in 
his  den  ? 

She  was  still  interested  in  her  orphan  asylum. 
Why  not  go  ask  him  for  a  subscription?  She 
wondered  if  he  would  be  very  brusque;  insulting, 
even.  The  possibilities  fascinated  her.  She  felt 
that  she  would  like  a  passage  at  arms  with  him. 
He  was  a  man  worth  worsting.  Under  such  cir 
cumstances  Fred  Starratt  would  be  either  liberal 
beyond  his  means  or  profusely  apologetic.  Not 
by  any  chance  would  he  give  a  prompt  and  em 
phatic  refusal.  .  .  .  The  more  she  thought  about 
it  the  more  enticing  the  prospect  became.  She 
felt  sure  that  if  Hilmer  didn't  approve  of  her 
charity  he  would  say  so  frankly,  perhaps  dis 
agreeably.  And  if  he  didn't  think  much  of  her 
husband's  venture  he  would  be  equally  direct. 
She  rather  wanted  to  know  what  he  did  think  about 
Fred  Starratt.  She  ended  by  coming  to  an  em 
phatic  decision.  She  would  not  only  go,  but  she 
would  go  that  very  afternoon.  If  there  were  any 
chance  for  her  to  prepare  an  easy  road  for  Fred's 
advance  it  lay  in  speedy  action. 

When  she  finished  dressing  for  the  encounter  and 
stood  surveying  herself  in  the  long  mirror  set  into 
the  closet  door  of  her  bedroom  she  had  to  admit 
that  she  had  missed  none  of  her  points.  Most 
women  at  her  age  would  have  been  sagging  a  bit, 
the  cords  of  youth  slackened  by  the  weight  of 
maternity  or  the  continual  pull  against  ill  health 
and  genteel  poverty.  Or  they  would  have  been 


BROKEN   TO   THE  PLOW  61 

smothered  in  the  plump  content  of  Mrs.  Hilmer. 
Helen  Starratt's  slenderness  had  still  a  virginal 
quality  and  she  knew  every  artifice  that  heightened 
this  effect.  To-day  she  was  a  trifle  startled  at 
quite  the  lengths  she  had  gone  to  strike  a  note  of 
sophisticated  youth.  She  had  long  since  ceased 
dressing  consciously  for  her  husband,  and  dressing 
for  other  women  was  more  a  matter  of  perfect 
detail  than  attempted  beguilement.  She  was  curi 
ous,  she  told  herself,  to  see  whether  a  man  like 
Hilmer  would  be  impressed  by  feminine  artifice.  .  .  . 
Did  a  black  silk  gown,  with  spotless  lace  at  wrist 
and  throat,  spell  the  acme  of  Kilmer's  ideal  of 
womanhood?  Was  woman  to  him  something  dur 
able  and  utilitarian  or  did  his  fancy  sometimes 
carry  him  to  more  decorative  ideals? 

She  did  not  go  directly  to  his  office ;  instead,  she 
dawdled  a  bit  over  the  shop  windows.  Things 
were  appallingly  high,  she  noted  with  growing  dis 
may,  especially  the  evening  gowns.  On  the  shrug 
ging,  simpering  French  wax  figures  they  were  at 
once  very  scant  and  very  vivid  .  .  .  strung  with 
beads  and  shot  through  with  gold  thread  or  span 
gled  with  flashing  sequins.  She  tried  to  imagine 
Mrs.  Hilmer  in  one  of  these  gaudy  confections. 
Almost  any  of  them  would  have  looked  well  on 
Helen  herself.  But  any  woman  who  went  in  for 
dressing  at  all  would  need  a  trunkload,  she  con 
cluded,  if  one  were  to  decently  last  out  a  season. 
She  found  herself  speculating  on  just  what  class  of 

people  would  invest  in  these  hectic  flesh  coverings.. 
5 


62  BROKEN   TO   THE  PLOW 

*  Certainly  not  the  enormously  rich  .  .  .  they  didn't 
buy  their  provocative  draperies  from  show  windows. 
And  even  the  comfortably  off  might  pause,  she 
thought,  before  throwing  a  couple  of  hundred 
dollars  into  a  wisp  of  veiling  that  didn't  reach 
much  below  the  knees  and  would  look  like  a  weather- 
beaten  cobweb  after  the  second  wearing.  With  all 
this  talk  about  profiteering  and  economy  and  the 
high  cost  of  living,  even  Helen  Starratt  had  to  admit 
that  one  could  go  without  an  evening  gown  at  two 
hundred  dollars.  But,  judging  from  the  shoppers 
on  the  street,  there  didn't  seem  to  be  many  who 
intended  to  do  without  them.  She  began  to  won 
der  what  her  chances  were  for  at  least  a  spring 
tailor-made.  She  supposed  now,  with  Fred  going 
into  business,  she  would  be  expected  to  make  her 
old  one  do.  Well,  she  decided  she  wouldn't  make 
it  do  if  she  had  to  beg  on  the  street  corner.  She'd 
had  it  a  year  and  a  half,  and  during  war  times  that 
was  quite  all  right.  The  best  people  had  played 
frumpish  parts  then.  But  now  everybody  was 
perking  up.  As  for  an  evening  gown  .  .  .  well,  she 
simply  couldn't  conceive  where  even  a  hundred 
dollars  would  be  available  for  one  of  these  spangled 
harem1  veils  that  was  passing 'muster  as  a  full- 
grown  dress.  ...  If  she  had  possessed  untold 
wealth,  all  this  flimsiness,  this  stylistic  froth,  would 
have  appealed  to  her;  as  it  was,  she  was  irritated 
by  it. ,  What  were  things  coming  to?  she  demanded. 
Just  when  you  thought  you  were  up  to  the  minute, 
the  styles  changed  overnight.  It  was  the  same  with 


BROKEN   TO   THE  PLOW  63 

household  furniture.  Ten  years  ago,  when  she  and 
Fred  had  set  up  housekeeping,  everybody  had 
exclaimed  over  her  quaint  bits  of  mahogany,  her 
neutral  window  drapes,  even  at  her  wonderful 
porcelain  gas  range.  Now,  everything,  from  bed 
to  dining-room  table,  was  painted  in  dull  colors 
pricked  by  gorgeous  designs;  the  hangings  at 
the  windows  screamed  with  color;  electric  stoves 
were  coming  in.  The  day  of  polished  surfaces  and 
shining  brass  was  over — antiques  were  no  longer 
the  rage. 

Her  dissatisfaction  finally  drove  her  toward 
Kilmer's  office.  She  stopped  at  one  of  the  flower 
stands  on  Grant  Avenue  and  bought  a  half  dozen 
daffodils.  She  begrudged  the  price  she  had  to  give 
for  them,  but  they  did  set  off  the  dull  raisin  shade 
of  her  dress  with  a  proper  flare  of  color.  She  con- 
cjuded  she  would  play  up  the  yellow  note  in  her 
costuming  oftener.  Somehow  it  kindled  her.  She 
wondered  for  the  first  time  in  her  life  what  gypsy 
strain  had  flooded  her  with  such  dark  beauty.  She 
stopped  before  a  millinery  shop  and  peered  critically 
at  her  reflection  in  a  window  mirror.  Yes,  the 
yellow  note  was  a  good  one,  but  she  was  still  a 
trifle  cold.  If  her  lips  had  been  a  little  fuller.  .  .  . 
Strange  she  had  never  thought  about  that  before. 
Well,  next  time  she  would  touch  them  ever  so 
deftly  into  a  suggestion  of  ripe  opulence.  She 
sauntered  slowly  down  Post  Street,  turned  into 
Montgomery.  There  were  scarcely  any  women 
on  the  street  and  the  men  who  passed  were,  for 


64  BROKEN   TO   THE  PLOW 

the  most  part,  in  preoccupied  flight.  Yet  she  saw 
more  than  one  pair  of  eyes  widen  with  brief  ap 
praisal  as  she  went  by.  Kilmer's  offices  were  in  the 
Merchants'  Exchange  Building.  Helen  decided  to 
slip  in  through  the  Montgomery  Street  entrance. 
She  felt  that  there  might  be  a  chance  of  running 
into  Fred  on  California  Street  and  she  didn't  want 
to  do  that. 

As  she  shot  up  toward  the  eleventh  story  in  the 
elevator  she  rehearsed  her  opening  scene  with 
Hilmer.  She  decided  to  take  her  cue  flippantly. 
She  would  banter  him  at  first  and  gradually  veer  to 
more  serious  topics.  .  .  .  But  once  she  stood  in  his 
rather  austere  inner  shrine  of  business,  she  decided 
against  subterfuges.  He  had  stepped  into  the  main 
office,  the  boy  who  showed  her  in  explained. 
Would  she  have  a  seat?  She  dropped  into  a  chair, 
taking  in  her  background  with  feminine  swiftness. 
A  barometer,  a  map,  two  stiffly  painted  pictures 
exhibiting  as  many  sailing  vessels  in  full  flight,  a 
calendar  bearing  the  advertisement  of  a  ship- 
chandlery  firm — this  was  the  extent  of  the  wall 
decoration.  The  office  furniture  was  golden  oak, 
the  rugs  of  indifferent  neutrality.  On  his  desk  he 
had  a  picture  of  Mrs.  Hilmer,  taken  in  a  bygone 
day,  very  plump  and  blond  and  youthful  in  a  soft, 
tranquil  way.  And  by  its  side,  in  a  little  ridicu 
lously-blue  glass  vase,  some  spring  wild  flowers 
languished,  pallidly  white  and  withered  by  the 
heat  of  captivity.  She  checked  an  impulse  to  rise 
when  he  came  in.  For  a  moment  his  virility  had 


BROKEN   TO   THE  PLOW  65 

overwhelmed  her  into  a  feeling  of  deference,  but  she 
recovered  herself  sufficiently  to  droop  nonchalantly 
into  her  seat  as  he  gave  her  his  hand.  He  was  not 
in  the  least  put  out  of  countenance  by  her  unex 
pected  presence,  and  she  felt  a  fleeting  sense  of 
disappointment,  almost  of  pique. 

"I  suppose  you're  wondering  why  I'm  here,"  she 
began,  tritely. 

He  swung  his  swivel  chair  toward  her  and  sat 
down.  "Yes,  naturally,"  he  returned,  with  dis 
concerting  candor. 

She  touched  the  petals  of  her  daffodils  with  a 
pensive  finger.  "Well,  really,  you  know,  I'd  quite 
made  up  my  mind  to  pretend  at  first.  .  .  .  Women 
never  like  to  come  directly  to  the  point.  I  thought 
up  a  silly  excuse — begging  for  an  orphan  asylum, 
to  be  exact.  But  I  can  see  that  wouldn't  go  here. 
. . .  And  I  don't  believe  you're  the  least  bit  interested 
in  orphans." 

"Why  should  I  be?"  he  asked,  bluntly. 

She  had  a  dozen  arguments  that  might  have 
won  the  ordinary  man,  but  she  knew  it  would  take 
more  than  stock  phrases  to  convince  him,  so  she 
ignored  the  challenge.  "You  see,  my  husband 
has  decided  to  go  into  business  .  .  .  and  .  .  .  well,  I 
thought  perhaps  if  you  had  any  insurance  ...  a 
stray  bit,  don't  you  know,  that  isn't  pledged  or 
spoken  for  .  .  .  it  would  all  be  so  encouraging !" 

He  smoothed  his  cheek  with  an  appraising  ges 
ture.  Against  the  blond  freshness  of  his  skin  his 
mangled  thumb  stood  out  vividly. 


66  BROKEN   TO   THE  PLOW 

"Why  doesn't  your  husband  come  to  see  me 
himself?" 

She  drew  back  a  trifle,  but  her  recovery  was 
swift.  "Oh,  he  intends  to,  naturally.  I'm  just 
preparing  the  way.  .  .  .  Fred's  a  perfect  dear  and 
all  that,  but  he  is  a  little  bit  reserved  about  some 
things.  ...  It  would  be  so  much  easier  for  him 
to  ask  a  favor  for  some  one  else.  ...  Of  course, 
he'd  be  perfectly  furious  if  he  knew  that  I  had 
come  here.  But  you  understand,  Mr.  Hilmer,  I 
want  to  do  all  I  can.  ...  I'd  make  any  sacrifice 
for  Fred." 

She  paused  to  give  him  a  chance  to  put  in  a  word, 
but  he  sat  silent.  It  was  plain  that  he  didn't 
intend  to  help  out  her  growing  embarrassment. 

"It's  all  come  out  of  a  clear  sky,"  she  went  on, 
trailing  the  fringe  of  her  beaded  hand  bag  across 
her  shoe  tops.  "He  only  told  me  last  night.  .  .  . 
There  isn't  any  use  pretending  ...  he  hasn't  any 
capital  to  work  on.  And  until  the  premiums 
begin  to  come  in  there  '11  be  office  rent  and  a 
stenographer's  salary  piling  up  ...  and  our  living 
expenses  in  the  bargain.  ...  A  friend  of  his  is 
putting  up  some  money,  but  I  can't  imagine  it's 
a  whole  lot.  .  .  .  I'm  a  little  bit  upset  about  it, 
of  course.  I  wish  I  could  really  do  something  to 
help  him." 

She  knew  from  his  look  that  he  intended  to  hurl 
another  disconcerting  question  at  her. 

"Well,  if  you  want  to  help  him,  why  don't  you?" 
he  quizzed. 


BROKEN   TO   THE  PLOW  67 

"Why,  I  ...  why,  I'm  not  fit  for  anything, 
really,"  she  tried  to  throw  back. 

"My  wife  said  you  were  pretty  efficient  at  the 
Red  Cross." 

"Oh,  but  that  was  different!" 

"Why?" 

"Well,  I  can't  just  explain,  but  it's  easy  to  do 
something  you  .  .  .  you  ..." 

"Feel  you  don't  have  to,"  he  finished  for  her, 
ironically. 

She  shrugged  petulantly.  "What  do  you  want 
me  to  do  ?  Solicit  insurance  ? " 

He  smiled.  "That's  what  you're  doing  now, 
isn't  it?" 

"Mr.  Hilmer!"    She  rose  majestically  in  her  seat. 

He  continued  to  sit,  but  she  was  conscious  that 
his  eyes  were  sweeping  her  from  head  to  foot  with 
frank  appraisal. 

"A  pretty  woman  has  a  good  chance  to  get  by 
with  almost  anything  she  sets  her  mind  on,"  he 
said,  finally. 

She  drew  in  a  barely  perceptible  breath.  The 
blunt  tip  of  his  shoe  was  jammed  squarely  against 
her  toe.  She  withdrew  her  foot,  but  she  sat  down 
again. 

"I  really  ought  to  be  angry  with  you,  Mr. 
Hilmer,"  she  purred  at  him,  archly.  "It's  very 
nice  of  you  to  attempt  to  be  so  gallant,  but,  after 
all,  talk  is  pretty  cheap,  isn't  it?  ...  So  far  I  don't 
seem  to  be  making  good  as  a  solicitor.  So  what 
else  is  there  left?" 


68  BROKEN   TO   THE  PLOW 

"How  about  being  your  husband's  stenog 
rapher?"  he  asked,  without  a  trace  of  banter. 

She  forgot  to  be  amazed.  "I  don't  know  any 
thing  about  shorthand,"  she  replied,  simply. 

"Well,  you  could  soon  learn  to  run  a  type 
writer,"  he  insisted.  "I  have  a  young  woman  in 
my  office  who  takes  my  letters  direct  on  the  ma 
chine  as  I  dictate  them.  She's  as  good  as, 
if  not  better  than,  my  chief  stenographer.  That 
would  save  your  husband  at  least  seventy-five 
dollars  a  month." 

She  had  an  impulse  to  rise  and  sweep  haughtily 
out  of  the  room.  What  right  had  this  man  to  tell 
her  what  she  could  or  could  not  do?  The  im 
pudence  of  him!  But  she  didn't  want  to  appear 
absurd.  She  leaned  back  and  looked  at  him 
through  her  half -closed  eyelids  as  she  said,  with 
a  slight  drawl: 

"Would  my  presence  in  the  office  be  a  bid  for 
your  support,  Mr.  Hilmer?" 

"It  might,"  he  said,  looking  at  her  keenly. 

She  did  not  flinch,  but  his  steady  gaze  cut  her 
composure  like  a  knife.  She  got  to  her  feet  again. 

"What  silly  little  flowers!"  escaped  her,  as  she 
took  a  step  near  his  desk  and  pulled  a  faded  blossom 
from  the  blue  vase. 

He  left  his  seat  and  stood  beside  her.  "I  got 
them  down  by  St.  Francis  Wood  last  Sunday," 
he  admitted.  "They  reminded  me  of  the  early 
spring  blossoms  in  the  old  country  .  .  .  the  sort 
that  shoot  up  almost  at  the  melting  snow  bank's 


BROKEN   TO   THE  PLOW  69 

edge.  .  .  .  The  flowers  here  are  very  gorgeous,  but 
somehow  they  never  seem  as  sweet." 

She  looked  at  him  curiously,  almost  with  the 
expectation  of  finding  that  he  was  jesting.  This 
flowering  of  sentiment  was  unexpected.  It  had 
come,  as  he  had  described  his  native  spring  blooms, 
almost  at  the  snow  bank's  edge.  She  reached  out, 
gathered  up  the  faded  blossoms  ruthlessly,  and 
dropped  them  into  a  convenient  waste  basket. 

"Do  you  mind?"  she  asked,  lifting  her  eyes 
heavily. 

He  did  not  answer. 

Slowly  she  unpinned  the  flaming  daffodils  from 
her  side  and  slipped  them  into  the  empty  vase. 
She  stepped  back  to  survey  their  sunlit  brilliance, 
resting  a  gloved  hand  upon  the  chair  she  had 
deserted.  She  was  conscious  that  another  hand 
was  bearing  down  heavily  upon  her  slender  fingers. 
The  weight  crushed  and  pained  her,  yet  she  felt  no 
desire  to  withdraw.  .  .  . 

The  office  boy  came  in.  She  moved  forward 
quickly. 

"There's  a  gentleman  named  Starratt  waiting  to 
see  you,"  he  announced. 

She  threw  back  her  head  defensively. 

"This  way!"  Hilmer  said,  as  he  opened  a  private 
exit  for  her. 

She  found  herself  in  the  marble-flanked  hallway 
and  presently  she  gained  the  sun-flooded  street. 
The  blood  was  pounding  at  her  temples  and  its  throb 
hurt. 


70  BROKEN   TO   THE  PLOW 

She  walked  home  rapidly,  swept  by  half-formu 
lated  impulses  that  stirred  her  to  almost  adolescent 
self-revelations,  yet  when  she  reached  her  apart 
ment  she  was  quite  calm,  almost  too  calm,  and 
outwardly  cold. 

That  night  over  the  black  coffee  Fred  Starratt 
said  to  his  wife,  with  an  air  of  restrained  triumph : 

"Well,  I  landed  the  insurance  on  Kilmer's  car 
to-day." 

She  flashed  him  an  enigmatical  smile.  "Oh, 
lovely!"... 

He  sipped  his  coffee  with  preening  satisfaction. 

"Everything  is  going  beautifully,"  he  con 
tinued.  "I  hired  an  office  and  began  to  connect 
up  with  two  or  three  firms.  That  preliminary 
from  Hilmer  w^as  a  great  boost.  ...  A  man  named 
Kendrick  handles  all  his  business,  so  I've  sort  of 
got  the  street  guessing.  They  can't  figure  how  I 
could  even  get  a  look  in. ...  Of  course  I'm  convinced 
that  Kendrick  shares  his  commissions  with  Hilmer, 
which  is  against  the  rules  of  the  Broker's  Exchange. 
But  he  didn't  ask  for  any  shakedown.  .  .  .  Brauer 
and  I  ordered  some  office  furniture,  and  to-morrow 
I'll  advertise  for  a  girl." 

"I've  got  one  for  you  already,"  she  said, 
deliberately. 

"Who?" 

She  reached  across  the  shallow  length  of  the  table 
•and  touched  his  arm  significantly. 

"I've  decided  to  do  it  myself,"  she  purred. 


BROKEN   TO   THE  PLOW  71 

He  patted  her  hand  as  an  incredulous  stare 
escaped  him.  "You!"  he  laughed. 

She  suffered  his  indulgent  and  mildly  contemptu 
ous  caress.  "Don't  laugh,  sonny,"  she  drawled, 
almost  disagreeably.  "Your  wife  may  prove  a  lot 
more  clever  than  she  seems." 


CHAPTER  V 

AFTER  the  first  two  weeks  Fred  Starratt's 
**  business  venture  went  forward  amazingly. 
His  application  for  membership  in  the  Insurance 
Broker's  Exchange  was  rushed  through  by  in 
fluential  friends  and  he  became,  through  this 
action,  a  full-fledged  fire  insurance  broker.  He 
did  not  need  this  formality,  however,  to  qualify 
him  as  a  solicitor  in  other  insurance  lines.  There 
was  a  long  list  of  free  lances,  where  the  only  seal  of 
approval  was  an  ability  to  get  the  business.  Au 
tomobile  liability,  personal  accident,  marine,  life — 
underwriters  representing  such  insurances  shared 
commissions  with  any  and  all  who  had  a  reasonable 
claim  to  prospective  success.  Therefore,  while  he 
was  waiting  for  his  final  confirmation  from  fire- 
insurance  circles  he  took  a  flyer  at  these  more 
liberal  forms.  There  seemed  no  end  to  this  mis 
cellaneous  business  which,  he  came  to  the  conclu 
sion,  could  be  had  almost  for  the  asking.  And  all 
the  time  he  had  fancied  that  the  field  was  over 
worked  !  He  mentioned  this  one  day  to  a  seasoned 
veteran  in  the  brokerage  world. 

''Writing  up  policies  is  one  thing,"  this  friend 
had  assured  him,  emphatically;  " collecting  the 
premiums  is  another  matter.  ...  If  your  fire- 
insurance  premiums  aren't  paid  up  inside  of  two 


BROKEN  TO  THE  PLOW  73 

months,  the  policies  are  canceled.  But  they  let  the 
others  drag  on  until  the  cows  come  home.  There's 
nothing  so  intangible  in  this  world  as  insurance. 
And  people  hate  to  pay  for  intangibilities." 

Starratt  refused  to  be  forewarned.  The  people 
he  went  after  were  personal  friends  or  gilt-edged 
business  men.  They  wouldn't  deny  their  obliga 
tions  when  the  premiums  fell  due. 

But  the  greatest  rallying  point  for  his  business 
enthusiasm  proved  to  be  Hilmer.  It  seemed  that 
scarcely  a  day  went  by  that  Hilmer  did  not  drop 
a  new  piece  of  business  Fred's  way.  Returning  to 
the  office  at  four  o'clock  on  almost  any  afternoon, 
he  grew  to  feel  almost  sure  that  he  would  find 
Hilmer  there,  bending  over  Helen's  shoulder  as  he 
pointed  out  some  vital  point  in  the  contract  they 
were  both  examining.  He  was  a  trifle  uneasy  at 
first — dreading  the  day  when  Hilmer  would  ap 
proach  him  on  the  matter  of  sharing  commissions. 
It  was  a  generally  assumed  fact  that  Kendrick, 
the  man  who  handled  practically  all  of  Kilmer's 
business,  was  a  notorious  rebater — that  he  divided 
commissions  with  his  clients  in  the  face  of  his  sworn 
agreement  with  the  Broker's  Exchange  not  to  in 
dulge  in  such  a  practice.  Obviously,  then,  Hilmer 
would  not  be  a  man  to  throw  away  chances  to  turn 
such  an  easy  trick. 

Starratt  voiced  these  fears  to  Brauer. 

"Sure  he  expects  a  rake-off,"  Starratt's  silent 
partner  had  said.  ' '  Everybody  gets  it ...  if  they've 
got  business  enough  to  make  it  worth  while." 


74  BROKEN   TO   THE  PLOW 

"Well,  he  won't  get  it  from  me,"  Fred  re 
turned,  decisively.  "I've  signed  my  name  to  an 
agreement  and  that  agreement  will  stick  if  I 
starve  doing  it!" 

Brauer,  disconcerted  by  his  friend's  vehemence, 
merely  had  shrugged,  but  at  another  time  he  said, 
craftily : 

"If  Hilmer  wants  to  break  even  on  the  fire 
business  he  gives  us,  why  can't  we  make  it  up 
some  other  way  ? .  .  .  There's  nothing  against  giving 
him  all  the  commissions  on  that  automobile 
liability  policy  we  placed  the  other  day.  We  can 
do  what  we  please  with  that  profit." 

Starratt  flushed.  "Can't  you  see,  Brauer,  that 
the  principle  is  the  same?" 

"Principle!  Oh,  shoot!  .  .  .  We're  out  to  make 
money,  not  to  reform  business  methods." 

Starratt  made  no  further  reply,  but  Brauer's 
attitude  rankled.  He  began  to  wish  that  he 
hadn't  allowed  Brauer  to  go  in  on  his  venture. 
But  it  had  taken  money  .  .  .  more  than  he  had 
imagined.  They  had  to  put  a  good  deposit  down 
on  the  office  furniture,  and  the  rent  was,  of  course, 
payable  in  advance.  Then  came  the  fee  for 
joining  the  Broker's  Exchange,  and  he  had  to 
borrow  money  for  his  personal  expenses  in  the 
face  of  his  diminished  salary  check  from  Ford, 
Wetherbee  &  Co.  He  realized,  too,  that  the  diffi 
culties  would  scarcely  decrease,  even  in  the  face 
of  brisk  business.  The  office  furnishings  would 
one  day  have  to  be  met  in  full,  the  typewriting 


BROKEN   TO   THE  PLOW  75 

machine  paid  for,  the  stationery  and  printing 
bills  settled.  During  all  this  time  he  and  Helen 
would  have  to  live  and  keep  up  a  decent,  not  to  say 
prosperous,  appearance.  Yes,  even  with  Helen 
saving  the  price  of  a  stenographer,  the  problem 
would  not  be  easy.  A  day  would  come  finally 
when  he  would  feel  compelled  to  provide  Helen 
with  a  fair  salary.  A  man  couldn't  expect  even 
his  own  wife  to  go  on  pounding  a  typewriting 
machine  for  nothing.  What  he  really  hoped  was 
that  when  things  began  to  run  smoothly  Helen 
would  retire.  ...  He  had  heard  her  in  the  old 
days  voice  her  scorn  of  the  married  woman  who 
went  out  to  earn  a  salary. 

"I  wouldn't  marry  a  man  who  couldn't  support 
me!"  she  used  to  blaze. 

As  a  matter  of  fact,  he  had  felt  the  same  way 
about  it — he  felt  that  way  still.  It  hurt  him  to 
think  that  Helen  should  be  wearing  the  badge  of 
his  inefficiency.  And  then,  deep  down,  he  had  a 
masculine  distaste  for  sharing  his  workday  world 
with  a'  woman.  He  liked  to  preserve  the  mystery 
of  those  hours  spent  in  the  fight  for  existence, 
because  he  knew  instinctively  that  battle  grounds 
lost  their  glamour  at  close  range.  His  Californian 
inheritance  had  fostered  the  mining-camp  attitude 
toward  females — they  were  one  of  two  things :  men's 
moral  equals  or  men's  moral  superiors.  It  was  well 
enough  to  meet  an  equal  on  common  ground,  but 
one  felt  in  duty  bound  to  enshrine  a  superior  being 
in  reasonable  seclusion. 


76  BROKEN  TO  THE  PLOW 

At  first  he  had  been  doubtful  of  Helen's  ability 
to  adapt  herself  to  such  a  radical  change.  Her 
performance  soon  set  his  mind  at  rest  on  that 
score,  but  he  still  could  not  recover  quite  from  the 
surprise  of  her  unexpected  decision.  Indifference, 
amazement,  opposition — nothing  seemed  able  to 
sway  her  from  her  purpose.  In  the  end  he  had 
been  too  touched  by  her  attitude  to  put  his  foot 
down  firmly  against  the  move.  .  .  .  She  got  on  well 
with  Hilmer,  too,  he  noticed.  Usually  at  the  end 
of  one  of  these  late  afternoon  conferences  with 
their  chief  patron  Fred  and  Hilmer  ended  up  by 
shaking  for  an  early  evening  cocktail  at  Collins  & 
Wheeland's,  just  around  the  corner.  Hilmer  al 
ways  saw  to  it  that  Fred  returned  to  the  office 
with  something  for  Helen — a  handful  of  ginger- 
snaps  from  the  free-lunch  counter,  a  ham  sandwich, 
or  a  paper  of  ripe  olives.  Once  he  stopped  in  a 
candy  shop  on  Leidesdorff  Street  and  bought  two 
ice-cream  cornucopias.  Fred  used  to  shake  a 
puzzled  head  as  he  deposited  these  gastronomic 
trifles  upon  Helen's  desk  as  he  said : 

"I  don't  get  this  man  Hilmer.  .  .  .  One  minute 
he  insults  you  and  the  next  minute  he's  as  con 
siderate  as  a  canteen  worker.  .  .  .  What's  he  throw 
ing  business  my  way  for?" 

Helen,  munching  a  gingersnap,  would  go  on 
with  her  laborious  typewriting,  and  return: 

"Why  look  a  gift  horse  in  the  mouth,  Freddie? 
. .  .  Women  aren't  the  only  riddles  in  the  world." 

"I  think  he  comes  to  see  you,"  he  used  to  throw 


BROKEN   TO   THE  PLOW  77 

out  in  obvious  jest.     "  That's  the  only  way  I  can 
figure  it." 

"He's  like  every  man  ...  he  wants  an  audience. 
...  I  guess  Mother  Hilmer  is  tired  of  hearing  him 
rave." 

And  so  the  banter  would  go  on  until  Fred  would 
pull  up  with  a  round  turn,  realizing  quite  suddenly 
that  he  was  talking  to  his  wife  and  not  just  to  his 
stenographer. 

"He'll  be  at  me  one  of  these  days  on  that  com 
mission  question,  you  mark  my  words,"  he  would 
venture. 

"And  what  are  you  going  to  do?" 

"Why,  refuse,  of  course,  and  lose  the  business." 

"Well,  don't  cross  the  bridge  till  you  come  to  it." 

She  puzzled  him  more  and  more.  She  seemed 
disturbed  at  nothing,  and  yet  she  glowed  with  a 
leashed  restlessness  that  he  could  not  define. 

"It's  the  strain,"  he  would  conclude.  "She's 
putting  more  into  this  venture  of  mine  than  she's 
willing  to  admit.  .  .  .  After  all,  women  are  amazing. 
.  .  .  They  pull  and  cling  at  you  and  drag  you  back  . . . 
and  then,  all  of  a  sudden,  they  take  the  bit  in  their 
teeth  and  you  can't  hold  them  in.  ...  Who  would 
have  thought  that  Helen  ..." 

And  here  he  would  halt,  overcome  with  the  soft 
wonder  of  it. 

Business  began  to  pour  in  from   Brauer  and, 
frankly,  Fred  was  disturbed.     He  wasn't  sure  of 
Brauer's  business  scruples. 
6"I  wonder  if  he's  promising  these  people  re- 


78  BROKEN   TO   THE  PLOW 

bates,"  he  said  to  Helen  one  day,  following  an 
avalanche  of  new  risks. 

"Well,  you'll  know  soon  enough  when  he  begins 
to  collect  the  premiums,"  she  replied,  indifferently. 

"But  I  don't  want  to  wait  until  then.  .  .  .  They 
tell  me  this  man  Kendrick  is  getting  awfully  sore 
at  losing  so  much  of  Kilmer's  business.  He'd 
like  nothing  better  than  to  hop  on  to  some  irregu 
larity  in  my  methods  and  get  me  fired  from  the 
Exchange.  ...  It  takes  a  thief  to  catch  one,  you 
know." 

"Oh,  why  worry?"  Helen  almost  snapped  at 
him.  *  *  If  Brauer  gets  us  into  a  mess  we  can  always 
throw  him  out." 

Starratt's  eyes  widened.  Where  did  Helen  get 
this  ruthless  philosophy?  Had  it  always  lain  dor 
mant  in  her,  or  was  this  business  life  already  putting 
a  ragged  edge  upon  her  finer  perceptions?  But  he 
made  no  answer.  He  had  never  admitted  to  Helen 
that  Brauer  had  insisted  upon  drawing  up  a  hard- 
and-fast  partnership  agreement,  and  taking  his 
note  for  half  of  the  money  advanced  in  the  bargain. 
It  was  one  of  the  business  secrets  which  he  decided 
he  would  not  share  with  anybody — he  had  a  child 
ish  wish  to  preserve  some  mystery  in  connection 
with  his  venture  against  the  soft  and  dubious 
encroachments  of  his  wife. 

"Anyway,"  Helen  went  on,  "as  soon  as  we  get 
running  smoothly  we  can  split.  No  doubt  he'll 
want  to  pull  out  when  he  sees  that  he  can  get 
along  without  us.  ...  Just  now  he  isn't  taking 


BROKEN   TO   THE  PLOW  79 

any  chances.  He's  holding  down  his  own  job  and 
letting  us  do  all  the  work  and  the  worrying.  .  .  . 
Oh,  he's  German,  all  right,  from  the  ground  up." 

Fred  had  often  shared  this  same  hope,  although 
he  had  never  voiced  it.  When  the  time  came,  no 
doubt  Brauer  would  eliminate  himself — for  a  con 
sideration — and  set  up  his  own  office.  But  it 
amazed  him  to  find  how  swiftly  and  completely 
Helen  had  figured  all  these  things  out.  Had  her 
mind  always  worked  so  coldly  and  logically  under 
her  rather  indifferent  surface?  He  still  wondered, 
too,  at  her  efficiency.  Was  this  a  product  of  her 
social  service  with  the  Red  Cross  during  war 
times?  .  .  .  Being  a  man,  he  couldn't  concede  that 
a  proper  domestic  training  was  a  pretty  good  school 
ing  in  any  direction.  He  didn't  see  any  relation 
ship  between  a  perfectly  baked  apple  pie  and  a 
neatly  kept  cash  book.  He  had  expected  his  wife 
to  fall  down  on  the  mechanical  aspects  of  type 
writing,  but  he  forgot  that  she  had  been  running  a 
sewing  machine  since  she  was  fifteen  years  old. 
And  even  in  his  wife's  early  childhood  people 
were  still  using  lamps  for  soft  effects  and  intensive 
reading.  Any  woman  who  knew  the  art  of  keeping 
a  kerosene  lamp  in  shape  must  of  necessity  find  the 
oiling  and  cleaning  of  a  typewriting  machine  mere 
child's  play.  He  didn't  realize  the  affinities  of 
training.  It  would  never  have  occurred  to  him  to 
fancy  that  because  he  kept  his  office  desk  in  per 
fect  order  he  was  qualified  to  do  the  same  thing 
with  a  kitchen  stove,  or  that  the  method  he  had 


8o  BROKEN   TO   THE  PLOW 

acquired  as  office  boy,  copying  letters  in  the  letter 
press,  would  have  stood  him  in  good  stead  if  he  sud 
denly  had  been  called  upon  to  make  up  his  own  bed. 
What  he  did  realize  was  that  the  leveling  process 
which  goes  hand  in  hand  with  the  mingling  of  sexes 
in  a  workday  world  was  setting  in.  And  he  re 
sented  it.  He  wanted  to  coddle  illusion  ...  he  had 
no  wish  for  a  world  practical  to  the  point  of 
bleakness. 

One  afternoon  Hilmer  came  in  at  the  usual  time 
with  a  handful  of  memoranda.  It  was  a  violently 
rainy  day — an  early  March  day,  to  be  exact — the 
sort  that  refused  to  be  softened  even  by  the  beguile- 
ments  of  California.  The  rain  wind,  generally 
warm  and  humid,  had  been  chilled  in  its  flight  over 
the  snow-piled  Sierras,  and  it  had  pelted  down  in 
a  wintry  flood,  banking  up  piles  of  stinging  hail 
between  warmer  showerings.  Fred  had  decided 
to  forgo  his  soliciting  and  stay  indoors  instead. 
Hilmer  greeted  him  with  biting  raillery. 

''Well,  I  should  think  this  was  a  good  day  to  bag 
a  prospective  customer,"  he  flung  out  as  he  laid  his 
umbrella  aside.  "Or  is  business  swamping  you?" 

Fred  tossed  back  a  trite  rejoinder.  Helen  went 
on  pounding  her  machine  .  .  .  she  did  not  even  lift 
her  eyes. 

"I've  got  something  for  you  to-day,"  Hilmer 
went  on,  as  he  unbound  the  bundle  of  papers  and 
sat  down  beside  Fred. 

Starratt  saw  the  edge  of  a  blue  print  in  Kilmer's 
hand.  This  spelled  all  manner  of  possibilities,  but 


BROKEN   TO   THE  PLOW  81 

he  checked  a  surge  of  illogical  hope.  "That's 
fine,"  he  answered,  heartily.  "But  why  didn't  you 
send  for  me?  I  could  have  come  over.  It's  bad 
enough  to  take  your  business  without  letting  you 
bring  it  in  on  a  day  like  this.  ..." 

Hilmer  made  a  contemptuous  gesture.  "Wind 
and  weather  never  made  any  difference  to  me.  .  .  . 
I've  traveled  twenty  miles  in  a  blizzard  to  court  a 
girl." 

"Oh,  when  a  woman's  involved,  that's  different," 
Fred  laughed  back.  "There's  nothing  as  alluring 
here." 

"Well,  Mrs.  Starratt,  what  do  you  say?"  Hilmer 
called  out  to  her.  "Your  husband  doesn't  seem  to 
count  you  in  at  all." 

Helen  was  erasing  a  misspelled  word.  "Married 
women  are  used  to  that,"  she  retorted,  flippantly. 
"Sometimes  it's  just  as  well  that  they  overlook 
us.  We  get  a  chance  to  play  our  own  hand  once 
in  a  while." 

Everybody  laughed,  including  Fred,  but  the  effort 
hurt  him.  There  was  a  suggestion  of  unpleasant 
mockery  in  Helen's  tone.  She  seemed  to  be  hiding 
her  contempt  behind  a  thin  veil  of  acrid  humor. 
And  somehow  this  revelation  in  the  presence  of 
Hilmer  stung  him. 

"I'll  bet  you  can't  guess  what  I've  got  here," 
Hilmer  began  again,  tapping  the  bundle  of  papers 
with  his  finger. 

Starratt  shook  his  head  and  Hilmer  tossed  him 
the  blue  print. 


82  BROKEN   TO   THE  PLOW 

"Not  the  insurance  on  your  shipbuilding  plant?" 
escaped  Fred,  incredulously. 

Hilmer  crossed  his  legs  and  settled  back  in  his 
chair. 

"You  said  it!"  he  announced.  "And  it's  all 
going  to  you  after  we've  settled  one  question.  .  .  . 
I've  been  bringing  you  in  little  odds  and  ends  as 
I've  had  them  .  .  .  not  enough  to  matter  much  one 
way  or  another  ...  so  I  haven't  bothered  to  really 
get  down  and  talk  business.  This  is  a  half -million- 
dollar  line  and  a  little  bit  different.  It  means 
about  fifteen  thousand  dollars  in  premiums,  to  be 
exact.  You  can  figure  what  your  commission  will 
be  at  fifteen  per  cent,  to  say  nothing  of  how  solid 
this  will  make  you  with  the  street.  .  .  .  Later  on 
there  '11  be  workmen's  compensation,  boiler  in 
surance,  public  liability.  It's  a  pretty  nice  little 
plum,  if  I  do  say  so." 

Helen  stopped  her  typing.  Fred  could  feel  his 
lips  drying  with  mingled  anticipation  and  appre 
hension.  He  knew  just  what  demand  Hilmer 
intended  making. 

"The  question  is,"  Hilmer  continued,  "how  much 
of  the  commission  are  you  going  to  split  up  with 
me?" 

Fred  shrugged.  "You  know  the  rules  of  the 
Broker's  Exchange  as  well  as  I  do,  Hilmer.  I've 
pledged  myself  not  to  do  any  rebating." 

Hilmer  did  not  betray  the  slightest  surprise  at 
Starratt's  reply.  Evidently  he  had  heard  something 
of  the  same  argument  before. 


BROKEN   TO   THE  PLOW  83 

" Everybody  does  it,"  was  his  calmly  brief 
rejoinder. 

"  You  mean  Kendrick,  to  be  exact.  .  .  .  I'm  sorry, 
but  I  don't  see  it  that  way." 

"Do  you  "mean  that  you  would  rather  pass  up  a 
half -million-dollar  line  than  share  the  spoils?" 

"It  isn't  a  question  of  choice,  Hilmer.  You 
must  know  I  don't  want  to  lose  five  cents'  worth  of 
business.  But  there  are  some  things  a  gentleman 
doesn't  do." 

He  was  sorry  once  the  last  remark  had  escaped 
him,  but  Hilmer  didn't  seem  disconcerted  by  the 
covert  inference. 

"Scruples  are  like  laws,"  Hilmer  returned, 
affably.  "I  never  saw  one  yet  that  couldn't  be 
gotten  round  legitimately." 

"Oh  yes,  you  can  subscribe  to  any  one  of  the 
Ten  Commandments  with  your  fingers  crossed,  if 
you  like  that  kind  of  a  game.  But  I  don't." 

Hilmer  moved  in  his  seat  with  an  implication  of 
leave-taking.  "Well,  every  man  to  his  own  taste," 
he  said,  as  he  reached  for  the  blue  print  and  pro 
ceeded  to  fold  it  up. 

Starratt  leaned  toward  him.  His  attitude  was 
strangely  earnest. 

"Do  you  really  like  to  participate  in  a  game  you 
know  to  be  unfair,  Hilmer? — dishonest,  in  fact?" 

"Participating?  I  haven't  signed  any  Broker's 
Exchange  agreement.  I'm  not  breaking  any  pledge 
when  I  accept  a  share  of  insurance  commission. 
That's  up  to  the  other  fellow." 


84  BROKEN   TO   THE  PLOW 

"Ah,  but  you  know  that  he  is  breaking  faith. 
.  .  .  And  a  man  that  will  double  cross  his  associates 
will  double  cross  you  if  the  opportunity  presents 
itself.  .  .  .  Would  you  put  a  man  in  charge  of  your 
cash  drawer  when  you  knew  that  he  had  looted 
some  one  else's  safe?" 

"That's  not  the  same  thing,"  Hilmer  sneered. 
"That  is,  it's  only  the  same  in  theory.  Practically, 
an  insurance  broker  couldn't  double  cross  me  if  he 
wanted  to.  ...  I  wouldn't  put  a  thief  in  charge  of 
my  cash  drawer,  but  I  might  make  him  a  night 
watchman.  He'd  know  all  the  tricks  of  the  trade." 

"Including  the  secret  entrances  that  those  on  the 
outside  wouldn't  know. ...  A  crook  wouldn't  stay  all 
his  life  on  the  night-watchman's  job,  believe  me." 

He  noticed  that  Helen  was  regarding  him  keenly 
and  her  glance  registered  indulgent  surprise  rather 
than  disapproval.  Hilmer,  too,  had  grown  a  bit 
more  tolerant.  He  felt  a  measure  of  pride  in  the 
realization  that  he  could  make  his  points  so  calmly 
and  dispassionately,  putting  this  rough-hewn  man 
before  him  on  the  defensive.  But  Kilmer's  waver 
ing  was  only  momentary;  he  was  not  a  man  to  waste 
time  in  argument  when  he  discovered  that  such  a 
weapon  was  futile. 

"Then  I  understand  you  don't  want  the 
business?" 

"Not  on  those  terms." 

Hilmer  shrugged. 

Helen  leaned  forward  and  put  out  a  hand. 
* '  Let's  see ! ' '  she  half  commanded. 


BROKEN   TO   THE  PLOW  85 

Hilmer  gave  her  the  blue  print  and  the  package 
of  memoranda.  She  began  to  unfold  one  of  the 
insurance  forms,  bending  over  it  curiously.  Fred 
was  puzzled.  He  knew  that  Helen  was  too  un 
acquainted  with  insurance  matters  to  have  any 
knowledge  of  the  printed  schedule  she  was  study 
ing,  yet  he  had  to  concede  that  she  was  giving  a 
splendid  imitation  of  an  experienced  hand.  Her 
acting  annoyed  him.  He  turned  toward  Hilmer 
with  an  indifferent  comment  on  the  weather  and 
the  talk  veered  to  inconsequential  subjects.  Helen 
continued  her  scrutiny  of  the  forms. 

Finally  Hilmer  rose  to  go.  Helen  made  no  move 
to  return  the  memoranda.  Fred  cleared  his  throat 
and  even  coughed  significantly,  but  Helen  was 
oblivious.  Presently  Starratt  went  up  to  his  wife 
and  said,  deliberately : 

"Hilmer  is  going  .  .  .  you  better  give  him  back 
his  papers." 

She  turned  a  glance  of  startled  innocence  upon 
them  both.  "Oh!"  she  exclaimed,  petulantly. 
"How  disappointing  .  .  .  and  just  as  I  was  becoming 
interested.  .  .  .  Why  don't  you  men  go  have  your 
usual  drink?  I'll  be  through  with  them  then." 

Hilmer  gave  a  silent  assent  and  Fred  followed 
him.  There  didn't  seem  to  be  anything  else  to  do. 
On  the  way  out  they  met  Kilmer's  office  boy  in  the 
corridor.  Hilmer  was  wanted  on  a  matter  of  im 
portance  at  the  office.  He  waved  a  brief  farewell  to 
Fred  and  left. 

Fred  went  back  to  his  wife.     She  had  abandoned 


86  BROKEN   TO    THE  PLOW 

the  forms  and  was  lolling  in  her  chair,  sucking  at  an 
orange. 

"Kilmer's  been  called  suddenly  to  his  office  on 
business,"  he  said,  brusquely.  She  turned  and 
faced  him.  "You'd  better  put  those  papers  in  the 
safe.  I'll  take  them  back  myself  to-morrow.  I 
can't  see  what  possessed  you  to  insist  on  looking 
them  over,  anyway." 

She  squeezed  the  orange  in  her  hand.  "Well, 
when  we  get  ready  to  handle  the  business  I  want 
to  know  something  about  it." 

He  stared.  "Handle  the  business?  You  heard 
what  I  said,  didn't  you?" 

"Yes,  I  heard,"  she  said,  wearily,  and  she  went 
on  with  her  orange. 

He  did  not  say  anything  further,  but  the  next 
morning  a  telephone  message  put  to  rout  his  resolve 
to  return  Kilmer's  insurance  forms  in  person. 

"I've  got  to  go  up  Market  Street  to  see  a  man 
about  some  workmen's  compensation,"  he  ex 
plained  to  Helen.  "You'd  better  put  on  your  hat 
and  take  those  things  to  Hilmer  yourself." 

She  did  not  answer.  .  .  . 

He  returned  at  three  o'clock.  Helen  was  very 
busy  pounding  away  at  the  typewriter. 

"Well,  what's  all  the  rush?"  he  asked. 

"I'm  getting  out  the  forms  on  Kilmer's  shipping 
plant,"  she  returned,  nonchalantly. 

"What  do  you  mean? .  .  .  Didn't  you  ..." 

"No  .  .  .  he's  decided  to  let  us  handle  the 
business." 


BROKEN   TO   THE  PLOW  87 

"Why  ...  on  what  grounds?" 

She  waved  a  bit  of  carbon  paper  in  the  air.  ' '  How 
should  I  know?  I  didn't  ask  him!" 

Her  contemptuous  indifference  irritated  him. 
"You  ought  to  have  waited  until  I  got  back.  .  .  . 
You've  probably  got  everything  mixed  up.  ...  It 
takes  experience  to  map  out  a  big  schedule  like 
that." 

"Hilmer  showed  me  what  to  do,"  she  retorted, 
calmly. 

"Then  he's  been  over  here?" 

"Yes  ...  all  morning." 

He  narrowed  his  eyes.  She  went  on  with  her 
typewriting. 

"Well,  I'll  be  damned!"  escaped  him. 

His  wife  replied  with  a  tripping  laugh. 

At  that  moment  Brauer  came  in.  "I  hear  you've 
got  the  Hilmer  line,"  he  broke  out,  excitedly. 
"They  say  Kendrick  is  wild.  .  .  .  How  much  did 
you  have  to  split?" 

"'Nothing,"  Starratt  said,  coldly. 

"Nothing?"  Brauer's  gaze  swept  from  Starratt 
to  Helen  and  back  again.  "How  did  you  land  it, 
then?" 

Helen  stood  up,  thrusting  a  pencil  into  her  hair. 

"I  landed  it,  Mr.  Brauer,"  she  said,  sweetly, 
tossing  her  husband  a  commiserating  smile. 

Brauer's  thin  lips  parted  unpleasantly.  "I  told 
you  at  the  start,  Starratt,  that  a  good  stenographer 
would  work  wonders." 

Fred  forced   a   sickly   laugh.     He   wished   that 


88  BROKEN  TO   THE  PLOW 

Helen   Starratt   had   stayed   at   home   where   she 
belonged. 

It  had  been  a  long  time  since  the  insurance  world 
on  California  Street  had  been  given  such  a  chance 
for  gossip  as  the  shifting  of  the  Hilmer  insurance 
provided.  Naturally,  business  changes  took  place 
every  day,  but  it  was  unusual  to  have  such  a  rank 
beginner  at  the  brokerage  game  put  over  so  neat  a 
trick.  Speculation  was  rife.  Some  said  that  Hil 
mer  was  backing  the  entire  Starratt  venture,  that 
he,  in  fact,  was  Starratt  &  Co.,  with  Fred  merely  a 
salaried  man,  allowing  his  name  to  be  used.  Others 
conceded  a  partnership  arrangement.  But  Ken- 
drick  announced  in  a  loud  tone  up  and  down  the 
street : 

1 ' Partnership  nothing!  I  know  Hilmer.  He's 
got  too  many  irons  in  the  fire  now.  He  wouldn't  be 
annoyed  with  the  insurance  game.  This  fellow 
Starratt  is  rebating — that's  what  he  is!" 

Of  course  the  street  laughed.  Kendrick's  in 
dignation  was  quite  too  comic,  considering  his  own 
reputation.  To  this  argument,  those  who  held  to 
the  proprietor  and  partnership  theories  replied: 

"That  may  all  be,  but  he  wastes  an  awful  lot  of 
time  in  Starratt's  office  for  a  fellow  who's  so 
rushed  with  his  other  ventures." 

It  was  at  this  point  that  a  few  people  raised  their 
eyebrows  significantly  as  they  said : 

"Well,  the  old  boy  always  did  have  a  pretty 
keen  eye  for  a  skirt." 


BROKEN   TO   THE  PLOW  89 

It  was  impossible  for  Fred  Starratt  to  move  any 
where  without  hearing  fragments  of  all  this  gossip. 
During  the  noon  hour  particularly  it  filtered 
through  the  midday  tattle  of  business,  pleasure, 
and  obscenity — at  the  Market,  at  Collins  & 
Wheeland's,  at  HjuTs  coffee  house,  at  Grover's 
Lunchroom — everywhere  that  clerks  forgathered 
to  appease  their  hunger  and  indulge  in  idle  specula 
tions.  Sometimes  he  got  these  things  indirectly 
through  chance  slips  in  talks  with  his  friends,  again 
scraps  of  overheard  conversation  reached  his  ears. 
Quite  frequently  a  frank  or  a  coarse  acquaintance, 
without  embarrassment  or  reserve,  would  tell  him 
what  had  been  said.  He  soon  got  over  protesting. 
If  he  convinced  anybody  that  he  was  getting 
Kilmer's  business  without  financial  concessions,  he 
had  to  take  the  nasty  alternative  which  the  smirks 
of  his  audience  betrayed.  ...  It  would  not  have 
been  so  bad  if  he  could  have  explained  the  situation 
to  himself,  but  any  attempt  to  solve  the  riddle 
moved  in  a  vicious  circle.  He  used  to  long  for  a 
simplicity  that  would  make  him  accept  Kilmer's 
favors  on  their  face  value.  Why  couldn't  one 
believe  in  friendship  and  disinterestedness?  Per 
haps  it  would  have  been  easier  if  he  had  lacked 
any  knowledge  of  Kilmer's  philosophy  of  life. 
Starratt  couldn't  remember  anything  in  the  recital 
of  Kilmer's  past  performance  or  his  present  attitude 
that  dovetailed  with  benevolence.  ...  He  retreated, 
baffled  from  these  speculative  tilts,  to  the  refuge 
of  a  comforting  conviction  that  fortunately  no 


go  BROKEN    TO    THE  PLOW 

man  was  thoroughly  consistent.  Perhaps  therein 
lay  the  secret  of  Kilmer's  puzzling  prodigality — 
because,  boiled  down  to  hard  facts,  it  was  apparent 
that  Hilmer  was  making  Starratt  &  Co.  a  present  of 
several  hundred  dollars  a  year.  Sometimes,  in  a 
wild  flight  of  conjecture,  he  used  to  wonder  how  far 
his  argument  with  Hilmer  regarding  the  ethics  of 
being  a  negative  party  to  another  man's  dis 
honesty  had  been  borne  home?  It  seemed  almost 
too  fantastic  to  fancy  that  he  could  have  put  over 
his  rather  finely  spun  business  morality  in  such  a 
brief  flash,  if  at  all. 

At  first  he  had  plunged  in  too  speedily  to  his 
venture  to  formulate  many  ideals  of  business  con 
duct,  but  as  he  had  progressed  he  found  his  stand 
ards  springing  to  life  full  grown. 

He  had  been  long  enough  in  the  insurance  busi 
ness  to  realize  the  estimate  that  average  clients 
had  of  an  insurance  broker — they  looked  upon  him 
as  a  struggling  friend  or  a  poor  relation  or  an 
agreeable,  persuasive  grafter,  whose  only  work 
consisted  in  talking  them  into  indifferent  acceptance 
of  an  insurance  policy  and  then  pestering  them  into 
a  reluctant  payment  of  the  premium.  Of  course 
big  business  firms  recognized  a  broker's  expertness 
or  lack  of  it,  though,  quite  frequently,  as  in  Hil- 
mer's  case,  they  were  more  snared  by  a  share  in  the 
profits  than  by  the  claims  of  efficiency.  But 
Starratt  wanted  to  succeed  merely  on  his  merit. 
He  wanted  to  teach  people  to  say  of  him: 

"I  go  to  Fred  Starratt  because  he's  the  keenest, 


BROKEN   TO   THE  PLOW  91 

the  most  reliable  man  in  the  field.     And  for  no 
other  reason." 

In  short,  he  wished  to  earn  his  commission,  and 
not  to  share  it.  He  wanted  to  prove  to  people  that 
an  insurance  broker  was  neither  a  barbered  mendi 
cant  nor  a  genial  incompetent.  Had  he  known 
that  a  conviction  of  his  ability  lay  at  the  bottom 
of  Kilmer's  sudden  change  in  business  tactics  he 
would  have  been  content.  As  it  was,  in  spite  of  the 
impetus  this  sudden  push  gave  his  career  he  had 
moments  when  he  would  have  felt  happier  without 
such  dubious  patronage.  As  a  matter  of  fact, 
Hilmer  rather  ignored  him.  He  brought  in  his 
business  usually  during  Fred's  absence  from  the 
office,  and  Helen,  under  his  guidance,  had  every 
thing  ready  before  her  husband  had  time  to  sug 
gest  any  line  of  action.  Forms,  apportionments, 
applications — there  did  not  seem  to  be  a  detail 
that  Hilmer  had  overlooked  or  Helen  had  failed  to 
execute.  Starratt  tried  not  to  appear  irritated. 
He  didn't  like  to  admit  even  to  himself  that  he 
could  be  small  enough  to  resent  his  wife's  curious 
efficiency.  But  he  wished  she  weren't  there.  One 
day  he  said  to  her,  as  inconsequentially  as  he  could : 

"I  really  think,  my  dear,  that  I  ought  to  be 
planning  to  get  a  woman  here  in  your  place.  .  .  . 
Now  that  Kilmer's  business  is  reasonably  assured, 
I  can  afford  it.  ...  It's  too  much  to  ask  of  you — 
keeping  up  your  house  and  doing  this,  too." 

''Well,"  she  shrugged,  "we  can  board  if  it  gets 
too  much  for  me." 


92  BROKEN   TO   THE  PLOW 

"You  know  I  detest  boarding." 

"I  can  hire  help,  then.  Mrs.  Finn  would  come 
in  by  the  day.  But,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  this  isn't 
any  more  strenuous  than  my  year  of  the  Red  Cross 
work.  I  managed  then;  I  guess  I  can  manage 
now." 

"But  I  thought  you  didn't  like  business  life." 

"I'm  not  crazy  about  it  ...  but  I  want  to  get 
you  started  right.  Suppose  you  got  a  girl  in  here 
who  didn't  know  how  to  manage  Hilmer?" 

He  checked  the  retort  that  rose  to  his  lips.  .  .  . 
He  couldn't  help  getting  the  nasty  inferences  that 
people  on  the  street  threw  at  him  unconsciously  or 
maliciously,  but  he  could  help  voicing  them  or 
admitting  them  even  to  himself. 

"Is  .  .  .is  Hilmer  so  hard  to  manage?"  he  found 
himself  inquiring. 

Helen  looked  up  sharply.  "No  harder  than 
most  men,"  she  answered,  slipping  easily  from  the 
traces  of  his  cross-examination. 

His  rancor  outran  his  reserve.  "I  guess  I'm 
vain,"  he  threw  out  bitterly,  "but  I'd  like  to  feel 
that  I  could  land  one  piece  of  business  without 
anybody's  help." 

She  laughed  indulgently.  "Why,  Freddie,  that 
isn't  nice!  You  landed  Hilmer  at  the  start.  .  .  . 
Don't  you  remember  that  very  first  line?  On  his 
automobile?" 

There  was  something  insincere  in  her  tone,  in  the 
lift  of  her  eyes,  in  her  cryptic  smile.  But  he 
smothered  such  unworthy  promptings.  It  was 


BROKEN  TO   THE  PLOW  93 

fresh  proof  of  his  own  unreasonable  conceit.  He 
turned  away  from  his  wife  in  silence,  but  he  was 
sure  that  his  face  betrayed  his  feelings. 

Presently  he  felt  her  standing  very  close  to  him. 
He  turned  about  sharply,  almost  in  irritation.  Her 
mouth  was  raised  temptingly.  He  bent  over  and 
kissed  her,  but  he  withdrew  as  swiftly.  Her  lips 
left  a  bitter  taste  that  he  could  not  define. 
7 


CHAPTER  VI 

A/TARCH  passed  in  a  blur  of  wind  and  cold, 
^  *  *  penetrating  rains.  Except  for  the  placing  of 
the  insurance  on  the  Hilmer  shipbuilding  plant, 
business  was  dull.  Fred  began  to  make  moves 
toward  getting  in  money.  But  it  was  heart 
breaking  work.  The  people  who  had  yielded  up 
their  consent  so  smilingly  to  Fred  for  personal 
accident  policies,  or  automobile  insurance,  passed 
him  furtively  on  the  street  or  sent  word  out  to  him 
when  he  called  at  their  offices  that  they  were  busy 
or  broke  or  leaving  town.  He  did  not  attempt  to  do 
much  toward  collecting  the  fire-insurance  premiums. 
Most  people  with  fire  policies  knew  their  rights  and 
stood  by  them.  The  premiums  on  March  business 
were  not  due  until  the  end  of  May  and  it  was  useless 
to  make  the  rounds  much  before  the  middle  of  that 
month. 

The  whisperings  on  the  street  continued,  and  a 
few  surly  growls  from  Kendrick  reached  Fred's 
ears.  One  day  a  close  friend  of  Fred,  who  knew 
something  of  Insurance  Exchange  matters,  said  to 
him: 

"There's  something  going  on  inside,  but  I  can't 
quite  get  the  dope.  ...  I  hope  you're  not  giving 
Kendrick  the  chance  to  have  you  called  for  rebat- 


BROKEN   TO    THE  PLOW  95 

ing.  .  .  .  He's  an  ugly  customer  when  he  gets  in 
action.'* 

Fred  was  annoyed.  "I've  told  you  again  and 
again,"  he  retorted,  "that  I'm  not  yielding  a  cent 
on  the  Hilmer  business." 

"It  isn't  that,"  was  the  reply.  "Kendrick 
knows  better  than  to  stir  up  a  situation  he's  helped 
to  befoul  himself.  .  .  .  No,  it's  another  matter." 

Fred  shrugged  and  changed  the  subject,  but  his 
thoughts  flew  at  once  to  Brauer.  He  decided  not  to 
say  anything  to  his  partner  until  he  made  a  move 
toward  investigating,  himself. 

The  next  morning  he  took  a  half  dozen  names  of 
Brauer 's  customers  at  random  from  the  ledger  and 
he  made  out  bills  for  their  premiums.  Practically 
all  of  Brauer's  business  was  fire  insurance,  so  Fred 
had  typical  cases  for  his  test.  The  first  man  he 
called  on  produced  a  receipt  from  Brauer  for  the 
premium  paid  on  the  very  day  the  policy  was 
issued.  The  second  man  protested  that  he  had 
paid  Brauer  only  the  day  before.  The  third  man 
stated  brusquely  that  he  had  placed  his  business 
through  Brauer  and  he  was  the  man  he  intended  to 
settle  with.  The  fourth  was  noncommittal,  but 
it  was  the  fifth  client  who  produced  the  straw  that 
betrayed  the  direction  of  the  wind. 

"I  want  to  see  Brauer,"  the  man  said.  "He 
promised  to  do  something  for  me." 

The  sixth  customer  was  even  more  direct. 

"There's  something  to  come  off  the  premium," 
he  said.  .  "Brauer  knows." 


96  BROKEN   TO   THE  PLOW 

Fred  did  not  wait  for  Brauer  to  come  into  the 
office — he  went  and  took  him  to  lunch  instead, 
where  he  could  prod  him  away  from  Helen's  sight 
and  hearing. 

"I'm  surprised  at  you,  Brauer,"  Starratt  broke 
out  suddenly,  once  they  were  seated  at  Graver's 
and  had  given  the  girl  their  order. 

"Over  what?"     Brauer 's  face  clouded  craftily. 

"Why  do  you  go  about  collecting  premiums  and 
holding  them  back  from  the  office?  .  .  .  That  isn't 
sound  business  tactics." 

Brauer 's  sharp  teeth  glistened  savagely  in  spite 
of  his  weak  and  bloodless  mouth.  "What  have 
you  been  doing  .  .  .  bothering  my  people?  I'll 
trouble  you  to  let  me  attend  to  my  own  clients 
in  future.  Those  premiums  aren't  due  for  a 
good  six  weeks  yet.  When  they  are  I'll  turn 
them  in." 

Fred  cooled  a  little  in  the  face  of  Brauer's 
vehemence.  "Oh,  come  now,  what's  the  use  of 
talking  like  that  ?  I'm  not  intending  to  bother  your 
customers,  but  there  are  some  things  due  me.  .  .  . 
My  name  is  on  every  one  of  those  policies.  There 
fore  I  ought  to  know  when  they  are  paid  and  any 
thing  else  about  the  business  that  concerns  me. 
You  know  as  well  as  I  do  what  is  reasonable  and 
just.  Suppose  you  were  taken  ill.  It  doesn't  look 
right  for  a  firm  to  go  about  making  attempts  to 
collect  premiums  that  have  been  paid." 

"Well  .  .  .  you're  pretty  previous,  Starratt,  dog 
ging  folks  in  March  for  money  that  isn't  due  until 


BROKEN   TO   THE  PLOW  97 

May,"  Brauer  grumbled  back.  "What's  the  idea, 
anyway?" 

Starratt  leaned  forward.  "Just  this,  Brauer. 
I  heard  some  ugly  gossip  yesterday,  and  I  wanted 
to  find  out  if  it  had  any  justification.  It  seems 
Kendrick  is  after  us.  He's  going  to  try  and  get  us 
on  a  rebating  charge.  I  saw  six  of  your  people  .  .  . 
and  I'm  reasonably  sure  that  two  out  of  that  six 
have  been  promised  a  rake-off.  .  .  .  Do  you  call  that 
fair  to  me?" 

"That's  a  lie!"  Brauer  broke  out,  too  em 
phatically. 

"I  doubt  it!"  Starratt  replied,  coldly.  "But 
that's  neither  here  nor  there.  What's  done  is 
done.  But  I  don't  want  any  more  of  it.  I'm 
playing  a  square  game.  I  was  ready  to  throw 
Hilmer  overboard  rather  than  compromise,  and 
I'll—" 

"Do  the  same  thing  to  me,  I  suppose!"  Brauer 
challenged. 

Fred  looked  at  him  steadily.  "Precisely, "he 
answered. 

The  waitress  arrived  with  their  orders  and 
Starratt  changed  the  subject.  .  .  .  Brauer  recovered 
his  civility,  but  hardly  his  good  temper.  At  the 
close  of  the  meal  they  parted  politely.  Fred  could 
see  that  Brauer  was  bursting  with  spite.  For 
himself,  he  decided  then  and  there  to  eliminate 
Brauer  at  the  first  opportunity. 

A  few  days  later  Brauer  came  into  the  office 
with  an  order  to  place  a  workmen's  compensation 


98  BROKEN  TO  THE  PLOW 

policy.  It  covered  the  entire  force  of  a  canning 
concern,  and  the  premium  was  based  upon  a  large 
pay  roll. 

"I've  had  to  split  the  commission  with  them," 
Brauer  announced,  defiantly.  "That's  legitimate 
enough  with  this  sort  of  business,  isn't  it?'* 

Starratt  nodded.  "It's  done,  but  I'm  not  keen 
for  it.  However,  there  isn't  any  law  against  it." 

The  policy  was  made  out  and  delivered  to  Brauer, 
and  almost  immediately  he  came  back  with  a  check 
for  the  premium.  "They  paid  me  at  once,"  he 
exulted. 

Starratt  refused  to  express  any  enthusiasm. 
Brauer  sat  down  at  a  desk  and  drew  out  his  check 
book.  "I  guess  I  might  as  well  settle  up  for  the 
other  premiums  I've  collected,"  he  said,  "while 
I'm  about  it." 

He  made  out  a  long  list  of  fire  premiums  and 
drew  his  check  for  their  full  amount,  plus  the 
workmen's  compensation  premium  in  his  posses 
sion.  But  he  took  5  per  cent  off  the  latter  item. 

Starratt  made  no  comment.  But  he  was  willing 
to  stake  his  life  that  the  check  from  the  canning 
company  to  Brauer  was  for  a  full  premium  without 
any  5-per-cent  reduction,  and  that  Brauer,  himself, 
was  withholding  this  alleged  rebate  and  applying 
it  to  making  up  the  deficits  on  the  fire  premiums 
he  had  discounted. 

The  next  day  Fred's  friend  said  again:  "Ken- 
drick's  doing  some  gum-shoe  work,  Starratt.  .  .  . 
You'd  better  go  awful  slow." 


BROKEN   TO   THE  PLOW  99 

With  the  coming  of  May  other  anxieties  claimed 
Starratt 's  attention.  Bills  that  he  had  forgotten  or 
neglected  began  to  pour  in.  There  was  his  tailor 
bill,  long  overdue,  and  two  accounts  with  dry- 
goods  stores  that  Helen  had  run  up  in  the  days 
when  the  certainty  of  a  fixed  salary  income  had 
seemed  sure.  A  dentist  bill  for  work  done  in 
December  made  its  appearance  and,  of  course,  the 
usual  household  expenditures  went  merrily  on. 
The  rent  of  their  apartment  was  raised.  Collec 
tions  were  slow.  In  March  the  commissions  on 
collected  premiums  had  just  about  paid  the  office 
rent  and  the  telephone.  .  .  .  April  showed  up  better, 
but  May,  of  course,  held  great  promise.  At  the 
end  of  May  the  Hilmer  premiums  would  be  due 
and  the  firm  of  Starratt  &  Co.  on  its  feet,  with  over 
two  thousand  dollars  in  commissions  actually  in 
hand.  On  the  strength  of  these  prospects  Helen 
began  to  order  a  new  outfit.  Fred  Starratt  did  not 
have  the  heart  to  complain.  Helen  had  earned 
every  stitch  of  clothing  that  she  was  buying — 
there  was  no  doubt  about  that;  still,  he  would 
have  liked  to  be  less  hasty  in  her  expendi 
tures.  He  had  been  too  long  in  business  to  count 
much  on  prospects.  He  disliked  borrowing  more 
money  from  Brauer,  but  there  was  no  alternative. 
Brauer  fell  to  grumbling  quite  audibly  over  these 
advances,  and  he  saw  to  it  that  Fred's  notes  for  the 
amounts  always  were  forthcoming.  Hilmer  did 
not  come  in  quite  so  often  to  the  office;  a  rush  of 
shipbuilding  construction  took  him  over  to  his 


ioo  BROKEN   TO   THE  PLOW 

yards  in  Oakland  nearly  every  day.  But  Mrs. 
Hilmer  was  in  evidence  a  good  deal.  Helen  was 
constantly  calling  her  up  and  asking  her  to  drop 
downtown  for  luncheon  or  for  a  bit  of  noonday 
shopping  uptown  or  just  for  a  talk. 

"She's  a  dear'"  Helen  used  to  say  to  Fred. 
"And  I  just  love  her  to  death.  ..." 

Fred  could  not  fathom  Helen.  A  year  ago  he 
felt  sure  that  Mrs.  Hilmer  was  the  last  woman 
in  the  world  that  Helen  would  have  found  bearable, 
much  less  attractive.  ...  He  concluded  that  Helen 
was  enjoying  the  novelty  of  watching  Mrs.  Hilmer 
nibble  at  a  discreet  feminine  frivolity  to  which 
she  was  unaccustomed.  After  a  while  he  looked 
for  outward  changes  in  Mrs.  Kilmer's  make-up. 
He  figured  that  the  shopping  tours  with  Helen 
might  be  reflected  in  a  sprightlier  bonnet  or  a 
narrower  skirt  or  a  higher  heel  on  her  shoe.  But 
no  such  transformation  took  place.  Indeed,  her 
costuming  seemed  to  grow  more  and  more  uncom 
promising — more  Dutch,  to  use  the  time-worn 
phrase,  made  significant  to  Fred  Starratt  by  his 
mother.  But  Helen  always  made  a  point  to  com 
pliment  her  on  her  appearance. 

"You  look  too  sweet  for  anything!"  Helen  would 
exclaim,  rushing  upon  her  new  friend  with  an  eager 
kiss. 

At  this  Mrs.  Hilmer  always  dimpled  with  whole 
some  pleasure.  Well,  she  did  look  sweet,  in  a 
motherly,  bovine  way,  Fred  admitted,  when  the  note 
of  insincerity  in  his  wife's  voice  jarred  him. 


BROKEN  TQ^THE  PI&W^-,  , 

One  day  Mrs.  Hilmer  brought  down  a  hat  the 
two  had  picked  out  and  which  had  been  altered  at 
Helen's  suggestion.  She  tried  it  on  for  Helen's 
approval,  and  Fred  stood  back  in  a  corner  while 
Helen  went  into  ecstasies  over  it.  Even  a  man 
could  not  escape  the  fact  that  it  was  unbecoming. 
Somehow,  in  a  subtle  way,  it  seemed  to  accent  all 
of  Mrs.  Kilmer's  unprepossessing  features.  When 
she  left  the  office  Fred  said  to  Helen,  casually : 

"I  don't  think  much  of  your  taste,  old  girl. 
That  hat  was  awful!" 

Helen  laughed  maliciously.  "Of  course  it  was!" 
she  flung  back. 

Starratt  shrugged  and  said  no  more.  There  was 
kindliness  back  of  many  deceits,  but  he  knew  now 
that  Helen's  insincerities  with  Mrs.  Hilmer  were 
not  justified  by  even  so  dubious  virtue. 

At  the  moment  when  the  Hilmer  shipyard  in 
surance  had  been  turned  over  to  Fred  Starratt  he 
had  at  once  made  a  move  toward  a  reduction  in  the 
rate.  Having  gone  over  the  schedule  at  the 
Board  of  Fire  Underwriters,  he  had  discovered  that 
they  had  failed  to  give  Hilmer  credit  in  the  rating 
for  certain  fire  protection.  On  the  strength  of 
Starratt 's  application  for  a  change  a  new  rate  was 
published  about  the  middle  of  May.  Starratt  was 
jubilant.  Here  was  proof  for  Hilmer  that  his 
interests  were  being  guarded  and  that  it  paid  to 
employ  an  efficient  broker.  He  flew  at  once  to 
Kilmer's  office. 


102  ..  , ;  BROKEN    TO  THE  PLOW 

"Let  me  have  your  policies,"  he  burst  out. 
"I've  secured  a  new  rate  for  you  and  I  want  the 
reduction  indorsed." 

Hilmer  did  not  appear  to  be  moved  by  the 
announcement . 

"Better  cancel  and  rewrite  the  bunch,"  he 
replied,  briefly. 

Fred  gasped.  This  meant  that  only  about  a 
sixth  of  the  premium  on  the  present  policies  would 
be  due  and  payable  at  the  end  of  the  month  and 
the  prospects  of  a  big  clean-up  on  commissions 
delayed  until  July. 

"Oh,  that  won't  be  necessary,"  he  tried  to  say, 
calmly.  "This  reduction  applies  from  the  original 
date  of  the  policies.  It's  just  as  if  they  had  been 
written  up  at  the  new  rate." 

Hilmer  ripped  open  a  letter  that  he  had  been 
toying  with.  "Better  cancel,"  he  announced, 
dryly.  "It's  a  good  excuse,  and  I'm  a  little 
pressed  for  money.  It  will  delay  a  big  expenditure. ' ' 

There  was  no  room  for  further  argument.  Fred 
left,  crestfallen.  Was  Hilmer  making  sport  of 
him,  he  wondered.  He  must  wait  then  until  July 
for  an  easy  financial  road.  And  would  July  see 
him?  out  of  the  woods?  Suppose  Hilmer  were 
to  conjure  up  another  excuse  for  canceling  and 
reissuing  just  as  the  second  batch  of  premiums 
fell  due? 

He  voiced  his  fears  and  anxieties  to  Helen.  She 
shrugged  indifferently. 

"You  told  me  when  you  went  into  business  that 


BROKEN   TO   THE  PLOW  103 

you  weren't  counting  on  Hilmer,"  she  observed, 
with  a  suggestion  of  a  sneer. 

So  he  had  thought  or,  at  least,  so  he  had  pretended. 
What  colossal  braveries  he  had  assumed  in  his  at 
tempts  to  play  a  swaggering  role !  He  had  started 
in  with  the  determination  to  set  a  new  standard 
in  the  insurance  world.  He  was  going  to  show  peo 
ple  that  a  young  man  could  begin  with  nothing  but 
honesty  and  merit  and  walk  away  with  the  biggest 
kind  of  business.  He  knew  that  his  hands  were 
clean,  but  he  realized  that  not  one  in  ten  believed 
it.  He  had  to  confess  that  appearances  were  against 
him.  Scarcely  anyone  believed  the  Hilmer  myth. 
And  underneath  the  surface  was  Brauer.  Fred 
felt  sure  that  Brauer's  ethical  lapses  were  still  in 
progress.  At  intervals  Brauer  always  contrived  to 
place  an  insurance  line  other  than  fire  and  insist 
that  he  was  compelled  to  grant  a  discount.  These 
premiums  were  always  settled  promptly  and,  in 
their  wake,  a  list  of  fire  premiums  paid  in  full  were 
turned  in  by  Brauer.  It  was  plain  that  Peter  was 
being  robbed  to  pay  Paul.  Starratt  even  grew  to 
fancy  that  there  was  a  substantial  balance  left  over 
from  these  alleged  discounts  to  clients,  which 
Brauer  pocketed  himself.  But  he  had  to  smile  and 
pretend  that  he  did  not  suspect.  Were  his  hands 
clean,  after  all?  Well,  just  as  soon  as  it  was 
possible  he  intended  to  rid  himself  of  Brauer. 
But  how  soon  would  that  be  possible?  And 
meanwhile  Kendrick  was  sniffing  out  disquieting 
odors. 


io4  BROKEN   TO   THE  PLOW 

He  rallied  from  his  first  depression  with  a  tight- 
lipped  determination.  He  was  not  trying  out  a 
business  venture  so  much  as  he  was  trying  out 
himself.  Previously  he  had  always  figured  success 
and  failure  as  his  performance  reacted  on  his  au 
dience.  He  was  learning  that  one  could  impress  a 
stupendous  crowd  and  really  fail,  or  strut  upon  the 
boards  of  an  empty  playhouse  and  still  succeed. 
He  began  to  realize  just  what  was  meant  by  the 
term  self-esteem — how  hard  and  uncompromising 
and  exacting  it  was.  To  disappoint  another  was  a 
humiliation;  to  disappoint  oneself 'was  a  tragedy. 
And  the  tragedy  became  deep  in  proportion  to  the 
ability  to  be  self -searching.  There  were  moments 
when  he  closed  his  eyes  to  self-analysis  .  .  .  when  it 
seemed  better  to  press  on  without  disturbing 
glimpses  either  backward  or  forward.  He  was 
eager  to  gain  an  economic  foothold  first — there 
would  be  time  later  for  recapitulations  and  readjust 
ments  to  his  widening  vision. 

The  two  months  following  were  rough  and  un 
even.  He  had  to  borrow  continually  from  Brauer, 
meet  Hilmer  with  a  bland  smile,  suffer  the  covert 
sarcasms  of  his  wife.  Some  money  came  in,  but 
it  barely  kept  things  moving.  His  broker  friend 
had  been  right — the  payment  of  any  premiums  but 
fire  premiums  dragged  on  "till  the  cows  came 
home."  Many  of  the  policies  that  had  seemed  so 
easy  to  write  up  came  back  for  total  cancellation. 
This  man  had  buried  a  father,  another  had  mar 
ried  a  wife,  a  third  had  bought  a  piece  of  ground — 


BROKEN   TO   THE  PLOW  105 

the  excuses  were  all  valid,  and  they  came  from 
friends,  so  there  was  nothing  to  do  but  smile  and 
assure  them  that  it  didn't  matter. 

But  somehow  Starratt  weathered  the  storm  and 
the  day  came  when  the  Hilmer  insurance  fell  due. 
Fred  found  Hilmer  absent  from  his  desk,  but  the 
cashier  received  him  blandly.  Yes,  they  were 
ready  to  pay,  in  fact  the  check  was  drawn  and  only 
awaited  Kilmer's  signature.  To-morrow,  at  the 
latest,  it  would  be  forthcoming.  Fred  drew  a  long 
sigh  of  relief.  He  went  back  to  his  office  whistling. 

In  the  hallway  he  met  Brauer. 

"I  want  to  have  a  talk  with  you,"  Brauer  began, 
almost  apologetically. 

Fred  waved  him  in  and  Brauer  came  direct  to  the 
point.  He  was  dissatisfied  with  the  present  ar 
rangement  and  he  was  ready  to  pull  out  if  Fred 
were  in  a  position  to  square  things.  His  demands 
were  extraordinarily  fair — he  asked  to  have  the 
notes  for  any  advances  met,  plus  50  per  cent  of  the 
profit  on  any  business  he  had  turned  in.  He 
claimed  no  share  of  the  profits  on  Fred's  business. 

"I  suppose  you've  collected  the  Hilmer  pre 
miums,"  he  threw  out,  significantly. 

Fred  nodded  and  began  a  rapid  calculation.  It 
turned  out  that  he  had  borrowed  about  $500 
from  his  partner  and  that  50  per  cent  of  the 
commissions  on  the  Brauer  business  came  to  a  scant 
$125.  Well,  his  profits  on  the  Hilmer  insurance 
would  be  in  the  neighborhood  of  $1,900  under  the 
new  rate.  To-morrow  he  would  be  in  possession  of 


106  BROKEN   TO   THE  PLOW 

this  sum.  It  was  too  easy !  He  drew  out  his  check 
book,  deciding  to  close  the  deal  before  Brauer  had  a 
chance  to  change  his  mind.  Brauer  received  the 
check  with  a  bland  smile  and  surrendered  the 
notes  and  the  partnership  agreement. 

At  the  door  they  shook  hands  heartily.  Brauer 
said  at  parting: 

"Well,  good  luck,  old  man.  ...  I  hope  you 
aren't  sore." 

Fred  tried  to  suppress  his  delight.  "Oh  no, 
nothing  like  that!  If  it  had  to  come  I'm  glad  to 
see  everything  end  pleasantly. " 

And  as  Brauer  drifted  down  the  hall  Starratt 
called  out,  suddenly: 

"I  say,  Brauer,  don't  put  that  check  through 
the  bank  until  day  after  to-morrow,  will  you?" 

Brauer  nodded  a  swift  acquiescence  and  disap 
peared  into  a  waiting  elevator. 

Fred  retreated  to  his  desk.  "Well,"  he  said  to 
Helen,  as  he  let  out  a  deep  sigh,  "that's  what  I  call 
easy!" 

She  looked  up  from  her  work.  "Almost  too 
easy,"  she  answered.  He  made  no  reply  and 
presently  she  said :  "You  didn't  tell  me  how  tightly 
you  let  him  sew  us  up.  With  signed  notes  and  that 
agreement  he  could  have  been  nasty.  .  .  .  It's 
strange  he  didn't  wait  a  day  or  two  and  then  claim 
half  of  the  Hilmer  commissions.  ...  I  wonder  why 
he  was  in  such  a  rush?" 

Fred  shrugged.  Helen's  shrewdness  annoyed 
him. 


BROKEN   TO   THE  PLOW  107 

That  evening  just  as  Helen  and  he  were  getting 
ready  to  leave,  a  messenger  from  the  Broker's 
Exchange  handed  him  a  note.  He  broke  the  seal 
and  read  a  summons  to  appear  before  the  executive 
committee  on  the  following  morning.  His  face 
must  have  betrayed  him,  for  Helen  halted  the  ad 
justment  of  her  veil  as  she  inquired : 

"What's  wrong?    Any  trouble?" 

He  recovered  himself  swiftly.  "Oh  no  ... 
just  a  meeting  at  the  Exchange  to-morrow." 

But  as  he  folded  up  the  letter  and  slipped  it 
into  his  coat  pocket  he  began  to  have  a  suspicion 
as  to  the  reason  for  Brauer's  haste. 


CHAPTER  VII 

HTHE  next  morning  Fred  Starratt  went  down  to 
•*•  the  office  alone.  Mrs.  Hilmer  had  telephoned 
the  night  before  an  invitation  for  Helen  to  join 
them  in  a  motor  trip  down  the  Ocean  Shore  Boule 
vard  to  Half  moon  Bay  and  home  by  way  of  San 
Mateo.  Hilmer  was  entertaining  a  party  of  Norse 
visitors.  Helen  demurred  at  first,  but  Fred  in 
terrupted  the  conversation  to  insist : 

"Go  on  ...  by  all  means!  The  change  will  be 
good  for  you.  I  can  run  the  office  for  a  day." 

Secretly  he  was  glad  to  be  rid  of  his  wife's  pres 
ence.  He  didn't  know  what  trouble  might  be 
impending  and  he  wanted  to  face  the  music  without 
the  irritation  of  a  prying  audience. 

His  fears  were  confirmed.  He  had  been  brought 
before  the  executive  committee  on  a  charge  of  re 
bating  preferred  by  Kendrick.  The  evidence  was 
complete  in  at  least  three  cases  and  they  all  in 
volved  Brauer's  clients.  In  short,  Kendrick  had 
sworn  affidavits  from  three  people  to  the  effect  that 
a  representative  of  Starratt  &  Co.  had  granted  a 
discount  on  fire-insurance  business.  Obviously  all 
three  cases  had  been  planted  by  Kendrick,  and 
Brauer  had  walked  into  the  trap  with  both  feet. 
There  was  nothing  for  Fred  to  do  but  to  explain 


BROKEN   TO   THE  PLOW  109 

the  whole  situation — who  Brauer  was  and  why  he 
had  an  interest  in  the  firm.  He  found  the  com 
mittee  reasonably  sympathetic,  but  they  still  had 
their  suspicions.  Fred  could  see  that  even  the 
sudden  withdrawal  of  Brauer  from  partnership 
with  him  had  its  questionable  side.  It  looked  a  bit 
like  clever  connivance.  However,  his  inquisitors 
promised  to  look  fairly  into  the  question  before 
presenting  an  ultimatum. 

Fred  went  back  to  his  office  reassured.  He  had  a 
feeling  that  in  the  end  the  committee  would  purge 
him  or  at  least  give  him  another  chance.  It  was 
inconceivable  that  they  would  pronounce  the 
penalty  of  expulsion,  although  they  might  impose 
a  fine.  He  was  so  glad  to  be  rid  of  Brauer,  though, 
that  he  counted  the  whole  circumstance  as  little 
short  of  providential. 

He  found  a  large  mail  at  the  office  and  quite  a 
few  remittances,  but  the  Hilmer  check  was  not 
in  evidence.  He  remembered  now,  with  chagrin, 
that  Hilmer  was  away  for  the  day.  Still,  there  was 
a  possibility  that  he  had  signed  the  check  late 
last  night.  He  called  up  Kilmer's  office.  No,  the 
check  had  not  been  signed.  Fred  reminded  the 
cashier  that  this  was  the  last  day  to  get  the  money 
into  the  companies.  But  the  watchdog  of  the 
Hilmer  treasury  had  been  through  too  many 
financial  pressures  to  be  disturbed. 

1  'They  11  have  to  give  us  the  usual  five-day  can 
cellation  notice,"  he  returned,  blandly.  "And 
payment  will  be  made  before  the  five  days  lapse." 


no  BROKEN   TO   THE  PLOW 

Fred  hung  up  the  phone  and  cursed  audibly. 
Of  course  a  day  or  two  or  three  wouldn't  have  made 
any  difference  ordinarily.  But  there  was  that 
damn  check  out  to  Brauer.  Well,  he  had  told 
Brauer  to  hold  it  until  Friday.  There  was  still 
another  day.  He  hated  to  go  around  and  ask  any 
further  favors  of  his  contemptible  ex-partner,  and 
he  hoped  he  wouldn't  have  to  request  another  post 
ponement  to  the  formality  of  putting  the  Brauer 
check  through.  Of  course  he  had  had  no  business 
making  out  a  check  for  funds  not  in  hand.  But 
under  the  circumstances  .  .  .  What  in  hell  was  he 
worrying  for?  Everything  would  come  out  all 
right.  What  could  Brauer  do  about  it,  anyway? 
As  a  matter  of  fact,  he  figured  that  under  the  cir 
cumstances  he  had  a  perfect  right  to  stop  payment 
on  that  Brauer  check  if  he  had  been  so  disposed. 
For  a  moment  the  thought  allured  him.  But  his 
surrender  to  such  a  petty  retaliation,  passed  swiftly. 
No,  he  wouldn't  tar  himself  with  any  such  defiling 
brush.  He'd  simply  wipe  Brauer  from  the  slate 
and  begin  fresh. 

He  kept  to  his  office  all  day.  He  didn't  want  to 
run  afoul  of  either  Kendrick  or  Brauer  on  the 
street,  and,  besides,  with  Helen  away,  it  was  a  good 
day  to  clean  up  a  lot  of  odds  and  ends  that  had  been 
neglected  during  the  pressure  of  soliciting  business. 
It  was  six  o'clock  when  he  slammed  down  his  roll- 
top  desk  and  prepared  to  leave.  He  had  planned 
to  meet  Helen  for  dinner  at  Felix's.  He  found 
himself  a  bit  fagged  and  he  grew  irritated  at  the 


BROKEN   TO   THE  PLOW  nr 

thought  that  prohibition  had  robbed  him  of  his 
right  of  easy  access  to  a  reviving  cocktail.  He 
knew  many  places  where  he  could  buy  bad  drinks 
furtively,  but  he  resented  both  the  method  and  the 
vileness  of  the  mixtures.  He  was  putting  on  his 
coat  when  he  heard  a  rap  at  the  door.  He  crossed 
over  and  turned  the  knob,  admitting  a  man  stand 
ing  upon  the  threshold. 

"Is  this  Mr.  Starratt?"  the  stranger  began. 

Fred  nodded. 

"Well,  I'm  sorry  to  bring  bad  news,  but  there's 
been  a  nasty  accident.  Mr.  Kilmer's  car  went 
over  a  bank  near  Montara  this  afternoon.  .  .  .  Mrs. 
Hilmer  was  hurt  pretty  badly,  but  everybody  else 
is  fairly  well  off.  .  .  .  Your  wife  asked  me  to  drop  in 
and  see  you.  I  drove  the  car  that  helped  rescue 
them.  .  .  .  Don't  be  alarmed;  Mrs.  Starratt  isn't 
hurt  beyond  a  tough  shaking  up.  But  she  feels 
she  ought  to  stay  with  Mrs.  Hilmer — under  the 
circumstances." 

Fred  tried  to  appear  calm.  "Oh  yes,  of  course 
.  .  .  naturally.  .  .  .  And  how  about  Hilmer 
himself?" 

The  man  shrugged.  "He's  pretty  fair.  So  far 
a  broken  arm  is  all  they've  found  wrong  with 
him." 

"His  right  arm,  I  suppose?"  Fred  suggested, 
with  an  air  of  resignation.  He  was  wondering 
whether  anybody  at  Kilmer's  office  had  authority 
to  sign  checks. 

"Yes,"  the  visitor  assented,  briefly. 


ii2  BROKEN   TO   THE  PLOW 

Fred  Starratt  had  a  hasty  meal  and  then  he  took 
a  direct  car  line  for  the  Kilmers'.  He  had  never 
been  to  their  house,  but  he  found  just  about  what 
he  had  expected — a  two-story  hand-me-down  dwell 
ing  in  the  Richmond  district,  a  bit  more  pretentious 
and  boasting  greater  garden  space  than  most  of  the 
homes  in  the  block.  Helen  answered  his  ring. 
She  had  her  wrist  in  a  tight  bandage. 

"Just  a  sprain,"  she  explained,  rather  loftily. 
"The  doctor  says  it  will  be  all  right  in  a  day  or 
two." 

Fred  sat  down  in  an  easy-chair  and  glanced  up 
and  down  the  living  room.  It  was  scrupulously 
neat,  reflecting  a  neutral  taste.  The  furniture  was 
a  mixture  of  golden  and  fumed  oak  done  in  heavy 
mission  style  and  the  pictures  on  the  wall  consisted 
of  dubious  oil  paintings  and  enlarged  photographs. 
A  victrola  stood  in  a  corner,  and  the  upright  piano 
near  the  center  of  the  room  formed  a  background 
for  a  precisely  draped  imitation  mandarin  skirt 
and  a  convenient  shelf  for  family  photographs  and 
hand-painted  vases.  On  the  mantel  an  elaborate 
onyx-and-bronze  clock  ticked  inaudibly. 

Helen  sat  apart,  almost  with  the  detachment  of  a 
hostess  receiving  a  casual  acquaintance,  as  she 
recounted  the  incidents  of  the  disastrous  ride.  Hil- 
mer  had  been  driving  fairly  carefully,  but  in 
swerving  to  avoid  running  down  a  cow  that  sud 
denly  had  made  its  appearance  in  the  road  the 
machine  had  skidded  and  gone  over  a  steep  bank. 
Mrs.  Kilmer's  condition  was  really  quite  serious. 


BROKEN   TO   THE  PLOW  113 

The  doctor  had  intimated  that  even  if  she  pulled 
through  she  might  never  walk  again.  They  had  a 
nurse,  of  course — two,  in  fact — but  some  one  had 
to  be  there  to  look  after  things.  The  servant 
girl  was  just  a  raw  Swede  who  did  the  heavy  work 
— Mrs.  Hilmer  always  had  done  most  of  the  cook 
ing  herself. 

Fred  inquired  for  Hilmer.  He  had  a  broken 
wrist  and  several  bad  sprains  and  bruises,  but  he 
was  resting  easily. 

"I  didn't  get  that  check  for  the  premiums 
to-day,"  Fred  said. 

Helen  rose  from  her  seat.  "I'll  speak  to  him 
about  it  to-morrow,"  she  returned,  lightly. 

Her  movement  implied  dismissal.  Fred  left  his 
seat  and  stood  for  a  moment,  awkwardly  fingering 
his  hat. 

"I  suppose,"  he  faltered,  "you  don't  know  just 
how  long  you'll  be  needed  here." 

"That  depends,"  she  answered,  shrugging. 

"Then  I'd  better  get  some  one  in  temporarily 
at  the  office." 

She  nodded. 

"Well,  good  night,"  he  said. 

She  kissed  him  perfunctorily  and  presently  he 
found  himself  in  the  street  again,  bound  for  home. 

A  low  fog  was  whitening  the  air  and  the  breeze 
blowing  in  fresh  from  the  ocean  was  sharp  of  tooth. 
Fred  shivered  slightly  and  buttoned  his  overcoat. 

"I  guess  she's  still  kind  of  dazed,"  he  muttered 
to  himself.  But  above  his  perplexity  soared  a 


ii4  BROKEN   TO   THE  PLOW 

fresh  determination.  He  would  get  a  woman  in 
his  wife's  place  in  the  office  and  he  would  keep  her 
there.  It  was  time  Helen  stayed  home  where  she 
belonged. 

The  next  morning  he  went  early  to  Kilmer's 
office.  The  cashier  took  him  aside. 

"Hilmer  has  authorized  me  to  sign  checks,"  he 
explained.  "But  I  understand  you're  in  wrong 
with  the  Exchange.  ...  I  think  I'll  make  out  checks 
direct  to  the  different  companies.  That's  always 
the  safest  thing  to  do  in  a  jam." 

Fred  was  too  furious  even  to  protest.  "I  don't 
quite  get  the  idea,"  he  returned.  "But  that's  up 
to  you.  If  you  want  to  write  thirty-odd  checks 
instead  of  one,  that's  your  business,  I  suppose." 

"Oh,  that  isn't  any  trouble,"  returned  the  man, 
complacently. 

Fred  swung  back  to  his  office.  Kendrick  must 
have  been  gossiping  with  a  vengeance!  What 
would  the  insurance  offices  on  the  street  think 
when  they  received  their  checks  direct  from  the 
Hilmer  company  ?  It  was  insulting !  And  now  he 
would  have  to  trail  about  collecting  his  commis 
sions  instead  of  merely  withholding  them  from  the 
remittance  that  should  have  been  put  in  his  hand. 
Still,  on  second  thought,  he  did  feel  relieved  to 
know  that  the  matter  wouldn't  drag  on  any  longer 
— that  he  wouldn't  have  to  ask  Brauer  to  hold  off 
with  his  bank  deposit  another  moment.  He  waited 
until  after  the  noon  hour  to  begin  the  collection  of 


BROKEN   TO   THE  PLOW  115 

his  commissions.  Kilmer's  cashier  had  promised 
to  send  his  messenger  around  to  the  different  com 
panies  before  eleven  o'clock. 

He  went  into  the  first  office  with  an  assumption 
of  buoyance.  The  cashier  looked  down  at  him 
through  quizzical  spectacles.  Yes,  the  Hilmer 
premium  was  in,  but  he  was  very  sorry — he  couldn't 
pay  Starratt  &  Co.  anything. 

"Why?"  Fred  demanded,  hotly. 

Because  the  Insurance  Broker's  Exchange  had 
sent  out  a  circular  asking  the  companies  to  with 
hold  any  commissions  due  that  firm  until  certain 
charges  of  rebating  were  investigated  further  and 
disproved. 

Fred  fled  to  the  Exchange.  The  secretary  was 
out,  but  his  stenographer  confirmed  the  circular. 
Fred  went  back  to  his  office  to  think  things  over. 
Again  he  was  tempted  to  repudiate  the  Brauer 
check  at  the  bank  and  let  Brauer  do  his  worst. 
But  he  drew  back  from  such  a  course  with  his  usual 
repugnance.  He  saw  now  that  all  his  high-flown 
theory  about  standing  on  his  own  feet  was  the 
merest  sophistry.  So  far,  he  was  nothing  but  the 
product  of  Hilmer's  puzzling  benevolence.  One 
jam  in  the  wheel  and  everything  halted.  He 
thought  the  whole  matter  out.  He  was  still  what 
Hilmer  had  intimated  on  the  night  of  that  dis 
turbing  dinner  party — a  creature  with  a  back  bent 
by  continual  bowing  and  scraping — <a  full-grown 
man  with  standards  inherited  instead  of  acquired. 
Why  didn't  he  go  around  to  the  office  of  Ford, 


n6  BROKEN   TO   THE  PLOW 

Wetherbee  &  Co.  and  beat  up  his  nasty  little  ex- 
partner?  Why  didn't  he  meet  Kendrick's  gum 
shoe  activities  with  equal  stealth?  It  should  have 
been  possible  to  snare  Kendrick  if  one  had  the  guts. 
And  why  accept  a  gratuity  from  Hilmer  in  the 
shape  of  two  thousand  dollars  more  or  less  for 
commissions  on  business  that  one  never  really 
had  earned  the  right  to  ?  He  began  to  suspect  that 
Hilmer  had  instructed  his  cashier  to  pay  the  com 
panies  direct.  It  was  probably  his  patron's  way 
of  forcing  home  the  idea  that  the  commissions  were 
a  gratuity.  No  doubt  even  now  he  was  chuckling 
at  the  spectacle  of  Starratt  running  about  the 
street  picking  up  the  doles.  He  decided,  once  and 
for  all,  that  he  wouldn't  go  on  being  an  object  of 
satirical  charity.  He  wouldn't  refuse  the  Hilmer 
business,  but  he  would  put  it  on  the  proper  basis. 
He  would  put  a  proposition  squarely  up  to  Hilmer 
whereby  Hilmer  would  become  a  definite  partner  in 
the  firm — Hilmer,  Starratt  &  Co.,  to  be  exact. 
This  would  mean  not  only  an  opportunity  to 
handle  all  the  Hilmer  business  itself,  but  to  con 
trol  other  insurance  that  Hilmer  had  his  finger  in. 
There  would  be  no  silent  partners,  no  gratuitous 
assistance  from  either  clients  or  wife,  no  evasions. 
From  this  moment  on  everything  was  to  be  upon 
a  frank  and  open  basis. 

He  went  out  at  once  to  see  Hilmer.  His  wife 
answered  the  door  as  she  had  done  previously  and 
he  sat  in  the  same  seat  he  had  occupied  the  night 
before.  He  had  a  sense  of  intrusion — he  felt  that 


BROKEN   TO   THE  PLOW  117 

he  was  being  tolerated.  Helen  had  removed  the 
bandage  from  her  wrist  and  she  looked  very  hand 
some  in  the  half-light  of  a  screened  electric  bulb. 
He  noticed  that  flowers  had  been  placed  in  one  of 
the  vases  on  the  mantelshelf  and  that  the  man 
darin  skirt  clung  a  trifle  less  precisely  to  the  polished 
surface  of  the  oak  piano.  A  magazine  sprawled 
face  downward  on  the  floor.  Already  the  impress 
of  Mrs.  Hilmer  on  the  surroundings  was  becoming 
a  trifle  blurred. 

He  came  at  once  to  the  point — he  had  a  business 
proposition  to  make  to  Hilmer  and  he  wished  to  see 
him. 

But  Helen  was  not  to  be  excluded  from  the  secret 
of  his  mission  that  easily.  The  doctor  had  denied 
anybody  access  to  Hilmer;  therefore,  unless  it  was 
very  urgent .  .  . 

' '  I  want  to  see  about  a  partnership  arrangement," 
Fred  explained,  finally. 

Helen  stirred  in  her  seat.  "You  mean  that  you 
want  him  to  go  in  with  us?  ...  What's  the  reason? 
He's  satisfied." 

Fred  drew  himself  up.  "But  I'm  not!"  he 
answered,  decidedly. 

She  shrugged.  "We've  had  one  experience  .  .  . 
we'd  better  think  twice  before  we  make  another 
break." 

"I've  thought  it  all  over,"  he  replied,  pointedly. 

She  colored  and  flashed  a  sharp  glance  at  him. 
"I  spoke  to  him  about  the  premiums  this  morning. 
.  .  .  He  tells  me  he  ordered  them  paid." 


n8  BROKEN   TO   THE  PLOW 

"Yes  .  .  .  direct  to  the  companies.  .  .  .  That's  one 
of  the  reasons  that  made  me  decide  to  get  things  on 
a  better  working  basis.  ...  I'm  tired  of  being  an 
object  of  charity." 

She  smiled  coldly.  Well,  Hilmer  simply  wouldn't 
receive  anyone  now,  and  she  herself  didn't  see  the 
reason  for  haste.  He  ended  by  telling  her  the 
reason  .  .  .  there  was  no  other  way  out  of  the 
situation. 

"Oh,"  she  drawled,  when  he  had  finished,  "so 
getting  rid  of  Brauer  was  too  easy,  after  all!"  She 
made  no  other  comment,  but  he  read  her  scornful 
glance.  "Any  fool  would  have  guessed  that!"  was 
what  it  implied. 

Still,  even  with  the  fact  of  Brauer's  craftiness 
exposed,  she  could  not  be  persuaded  that  the 
proposition  was  quite  that  urgent. 

"You  don't?"  he  inquired,  with  growing  irrita 
tion.  "Well,  you've  forgotten  that  check  for  some 
six  hundred-odd  dollars  I  wrote  for  Brauer  the 
other  day.  ...  I  presume  you  know  it's  a  felony 
to  give  out  checks  when  there  aren't  sufficient  funds 
on  deposit." 

She  stared  at  him.  "That's  absurd!"  she  ex 
claimed.  "Brauer  wouldn't  go  that  far!" 

He  quite  agreed  there,  but  he  didn't  say  so.  In 
stead,  he  insisted  that  anything  was  possible.  They 
argued  the  matter  scornfully.  In  the  end  he  won. 

"Well,  I'll  try,"  she  announced,  coldly.  "I'll 
do  my  best.  .  .  .  But  I'm  sure  he  won't  see  you." 

She  left  the  room  with  an  indefinable  air  of  bore- 


BROKEN  TO   THE  PLOW  119 

dom.  He  rose  from  his  seat  and  began  to  pace  up 
and  down.  The  whole  situation  had  a  suggestion 
of  unreality.  In  pleading  with  Helen  for  a  chance 
to  talk  to  Hilmer  he  had  a  sense  of  crossing  swords 
with  some  intangible  and  sinister  shadow;  his 
wife  seemed  suddenly  to  have  arrived  at  a  state 
toward  which  she  had  been  traveling  all  these  last 
uncertain  weeks  .  .  .  fading,  fading  from  the  frame 
of  his  existence.  Was  he  growing  hypersensitive 
or  merely  unreasonable? 

Fifteen  minutes  passed  ...  a  half  hour  ...  an 
hour.  Starratt  stopped  his  restless  movements  and 
picked  up  the  sprawling  magazine.  .  .  .  Presently 
Helen  came  into  the  room.  He  rose. 

Her  thin-lipped  smile  shaped  itself  with  a  tolerant 
geniality  as  she  came  toward  him  with  complacent 
triumph. 

"Well,"  she  began,  easily,  "I  got  a  thousand 
dollars  out  of  him." 

He  went  up  close  to  her.  "A  thousand  ...  I 
don't  quite  understand." 

She  flourished  a  check  in  his  face.  "Oh,  he  can 
sign  checks  with  his  left  hand,"  she  threw  back, 
gayly. 

"You  mean  you've  spoken  to  him  about  the 
partnership  and  ..." 

"Of  course  not  ...  he  wasn't  in  any  humor  for 
that." 

"Well,  then,  what  is  this  check  for?" 

She  drew  back  a  little.  "Why,  it's  to  help  you 
out,  of  course.  Don't  you  want  it?" 


120  BROKEN   TO    THE  PLOW 

He  felt  himself  grow  suddenly  cold  as  he  stood 
and  watched  her  recoil  momentarily  from  his  two- 
edged  glance.  "No!"  he  retorted. 

She  continued  to  back  away  from  him.  He  fol 
lowed  her  retreat. 

"I  don't  think  you  quite  get  me,  Helen/'  he 
heard  himself  say,  with  icy  sharpness.  "I  wanted 
to  see  Hilmer  myself!  I  had  a  business  proposition 
to  put  up  to  him.  I  want  co-operation — not 
questionable  charity!" 

She  flung  back  her  head,  but  her  voice  lacked 
defiance  as  she  said: 

"Was  that  meant  as  an  insult?" 

"No,"  he  returned,  quietly,  "as  a  warning." 

She  stood  silent,  facing  him  with  that  clear,  dis 
arming  gaze  that  she  knew  how  to  achieve  so  per 
fectly.  He  felt  a  great  yearning  overwhelm  him 
...  a  desire  to  meet  her  halfway  ...  a  vagrant  dis 
pleasure  at  his  ill-natured  irritation. 

"How  is  Mrs.  Hilmer?"  he  asked,  suddenly,  as 
he  reached  for  his  hat. 

She  shrugged.  "There  isn't  any  change,"  she 
replied,  almost  inaudibly. 

1 '  Shall  I  bring  you  anything  from  the  apartment  ? ' ' 

"No  .  .  .  I'll  go  myself  this  afternoon  and  get 
some  things  together.  ...  I  need  a  little  air,  any 
way."  She  followed  him  to  the  door.  "Then  I 
understand  you  don't  want  this?"  she  inquired, 
indicating  the  check  in  her  hand. 

His  only  answer  was  an  incredulous  stare. 

"What  excuse  shall  I  make  him?" 


BROKEN   TO   THE  PLOW  121 

He  put  on  his  hat.  The  flame  of  his  displeasure 
had  cooled,  but  he  was  still  inflexible.  "None,  so 
far  as  I  am  concerned." 

A  retort  died  on  her  lips.  He  could  see  that  she 
was  puzzled. 

"Well,  so  long,"  he  ventured. 

She  drew  herself  up  with  the  swift  movement  of 
one  parrying  a  blow. 

"So  long!"  she  echoed,  and  the  door  closed 
sharply. 

He  went  down  the  steps.  There  was  an  air  of 
finality  in  his  retreat.  ...  At  the  office  he  found  a 
note  from  Brauer. 

Your  check  has  been  returned  to  me.  ...  I  shall  put  it 
through  the  bank  again  to-morrow. 

He  crumpled  the  sheet  of  paper  and  dropped  it 
into  the  waste  basket.  How  much  would  Brauer 
dare?  he  wondered. 

That  night  the  friend  who  had  first  warned  him 
against  Kendrick  met  him  on  California  Street. 

"I  see  my  prophecy  came  true,  Fred,"  he  haz 
arded.  "Why  didn't  you  tell  me  that  Brauer  was 
your  partner?  ...  By  the  way,  I  saw  Kendrick  and 
him  going  to  lunch  together  to-day.  What's  the 
idea?" 

Fred  lifted  his  eyebrows  and  laughed  a  toneless 
reply.  What  was  the  idea  ?  He  wished  he  knew. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

'T'HE  next  day  passed  in  complete  inaction. 
*  Frankly,  Starratt  did  not  know  what  move  to 
make.  He  felt  that  he  should  have  been  trying 
to  square  matters,  but  to  raise  offhand  six  hundred- 
odd  dollars  was  a  feat  too  impossible  to  even  at 
tempt.  He  had  few  relations,  and  these  few  were 
remote  and  penniless,  and  his  friends  were  equally 
lacking  in  financial  resource.  He  was  confident 
that  he  could  convince  Hilmer  of  the  soundness  of 
his  new  plan  once  he  achieved  an  interview.  But 
all  his  pride  rose  up  to  combat  the  suggestion 
that  he  present  himself  before  Helen  and  plead  for 
an  audience.  Once  he  had  an  impulse  to  go  to  the 
president  of  the  bank  and  ask  for  an  advance  at  the 
proper  rate  of  interest.  He  knew  scores  of  cases 
where  banks  loaned  money  on  personality;  he 
had  heard  many  a  bank  official  express  himself  to 
the  effect  that  a  poor  man  with  a  vision  and  in 
tegrity  was  a  better  chance  any  day  than  a  mil 
lionaire  lacking  a  goal  or  scruples.  But  in  the  end 
he  was  swung  from  any  initiative  by  a  passive  de 
sire  to  even  his  score  with  Brauer.  After  all,  it 
was  diverting  to  wait  for  his  ex-partner's  next 
move.  Brauer  had  had  no  compunctions  in 
tricking  him.  Why,  then,  should  he  worry?  No, 


BROKEN   TO   THE  PLOW  123 

it  would  be  fun  just  to  let  Brauer  stew  in  a  sample 
of  his  own  Teutonic  duplicity. 

He  felt  a  relief  at  Helen's  absence  from  the  office. 
He  had  never  wanted  her  there  and  he  was  de 
termined  not  to  have  her  back.  Last  night  she 
had  entirely  misread  the  reason  back  of  his  desire 
for  an  interview  with  Hilmer,  and  he  had  been 
moved  to  a  nasty  rancor.  But  now  he  felt  tolerant, 
rather  than  displeased.  Women  were  often  like 
that,  a  bit  unethical  regarding  money.  In  wheedling 
a  check  out  of  Hilmer  she  had  used  the  easiest 
weapons  a  woman  possessed.  She  had  meant  well, 
Fred  concluded,  using  that  time-worn  excuse 
which  has  served  nearly  every  questionable  act 
since  the  world  began.  And  in  the  final  analysis, 
he  really  blamed  himself.  Such  humiliation  was 
usually  the  price  a  man  paid  when  he  let  the 
women  of  his  household  share  in  the  financial 
responsibility.  He  should  have  hoed  his  own  row 
and  wiped  the  sweat  of  his  labors  upon  his  own 
coat  sleeve.  Well,  Hilmer  would  be  about  in  a 
few  days  and  meanwhile  Brauer  would  have  some 
uncomfortable  hours.  In  the  end,  no  doubt,  after 
Brauer  had  collected  his  six  hundred  dollars,  he 
would  go  into  a  partnership  with  Kendrick.  That 
explained  the  mystery  of  these  two  linen-collared 
crooks  lunching  together.  .  .  .  After  all,  there  was  an 
element  of  humor  in  the  whole  situation. 

On  Saturday  morning  Starratt  overslept  and  he 
did  not  get  down  to  the  office  until  nearly  ten 
o'clock.  He  was  picking  up  the  mail  that  had 


i24  BROKEN   TO   THE  PLOW 

been  dropped  through  the  door  when  the  janitor 
came  close  to  him.  Fred  gave  a  sharp  glance  and 
the  man  said: 

"There's  been  a  guy  waiting  around  since  eight 
o'clock,  watching  your  door.  ...  I  think  he  must 
have  a  paper  or  something  to  serve  on  you.  .  .  . 
Matter  of  fact,  he  looked  like  a  fly  cop  to  me.  .  .  . 
I  asked  him  what  he  wanted  and  he  just  smiled.  ..." 

Fred  laughed  a  careless  rejoinder  and  the  janitor 
went  down  the  hall,  brushing  the  marble  dado  with 
his  bedraggled  feather  duster. 

Fred  Starratt  closed  the  door  softly  and  sat  down 
at  his  desk,  trying  to  concentrate  on  his  mail.  He 
felt  a  sudden  chill.  But  he  managed,  after  a 
fashion,  to  fix  his  mind  upon  immediate  problems. 
Twice  during  the  morning  he  made  a  move  toward 
leaving  to  do  some  soliciting,  but  almost  at  once  he 
invented  an  excuse  which  dissuaded  him. 

When  he  went  out  to  lunch  he  passed  a  man 
loitering  in  the  hall.  A  crowded  elevator  shot 
past.  Fred  decided  to  walk  down  the  stairs  .  .  . 
the  man  followed  at  a  nonchalant  and  discreet 
distance.  Starratt  lingered  in  the  marble-flanked 
doorway.  .  .  .  The  man  crossed  the  street  and  stood 
on  the  corner. 

Fred  decided  to  lunch  at  Hjul's.  During  the 
short  walk  to  his  destination  he  dismissed  every 
thing  from  his  mind  except  the  anticipation  of  food. 
He  discovered  he  was  very  hungry  and  it  strucl 
him  that  he  had  forgotten  to  breakfast.  He  had 
come  away  from  the  house  with  the  idea  of  getting 


BROKEN   TO   THE  PLOW  125 

a  cup  of  coffee  in  a  waffle  kitchen  on  Kearny  Street 
and  his  preoccupation  had  routed  this  vague  plan. 
He  was  chuckling  over  his  lapse  when  he  swung  into 
Hjul's  and  took  a  seat  near  the  window.  He 
ordered  a  hot  roast-beef  sandwich  and  coffee  as 
he  shared  his  joke  with  the  waitress.  She  brushed 
some  crumbs  from  the  table  with  a  napkin,  laughed, 
and  went  scampering  for  the  order.  Fred's  eyes 
followed  her  retreat  and  fell  sharply  upon  the  line 
of  men  drifting  in  the  narrow  entrance.  At  the 
tag  end  loomed  the  figure  of  the  man  who  had  fol 
lowed  him  down  the  stairs  from  his  office.  Fred 
picked  up  a  newspaper.  The  man  sat  down  at  a 
table  in  a  far  corner.  Over  the  edge  of  the  news 
paper  Fred  stole  a  furtive  glance.  The  man  was  of 
slippery  slenderness,  with  a  rather  round,  ex 
pressionless  face.  His  eyes  were  beady  and  shift 
ing,  and  his  lips  thin  and  pale  and  cruel.  The 
waitress  came  tripping  back  with  Starratt's  order. 
Fred  fell  to. 

Presently  Fred  finished.  He  rose  deliberately, 
taking  time  to  brush  every  crumb  from  his  lap. 
At  the  door  he  reached  for  a  whisk  broom  and 
wielded  it  conspicuously.  He  could  not  have  said 
whether  bravado  or  contempt  was  moving  him  to 
such  flamboyant  dawdling.  Or  was  he  merely 
trying  to  persuade  himself  that  he  had  nothing 
to  fear  in  any  case?  He  stepped  out  into  a  shower 
of  noonday  sunshine  flooding  through  a  rift  in  the 
high  fog  of  a  July  morning  in  San  Francisco.  A 
delicious  thrill  from  open  spaces  communicated 


126  BROKEN   TO   THE  PLOW 

itself  to  him.  No,  he  would  not  go  back  to  the 
office — it  was  Saturday,  anyway,  and,  besides,  he 
felt  a  vague  desire  for  freedom  and  the  tang  of 
wind-clean  air.  He  would  ride  out  to  Golden 
Gate  Park  and  stroll  leisurely  through  its  length 
to  the  ocean.  .  .  .  He  walked  briskly  down  Mont 
gomery  Street  to  Market,  waited  a  few  seconds  at 
a  safety  station,  and  finally  swung  on  a  car.  .  .  .  He 
was  standing  before  a  tiny  lake  at  the  Haight 
Street  entrance  to  the  Park,  watching  a  black 
swan  ruffling  its  feathers,  when  he  felt  a  presence 
near  him.  He  did  not  lift  his  eyes  for  some  mo 
ments,  but  when  he  did  look  up  it  was  to  see  his 
shifty  friend  of  the  morning  pretending  to  be 
amused  at  a  group  of  noisy  sparrows  quarreling 
over  a  windfall  of  crumbs.  .  .  .  Fred  Starratt  moved 
on. 

All  afternoon  Fred  Starratt  wandered  about — 
sometimes  dawdling  defiantly,  sometimes  dropping 
into  a  brisk  pace,  but  at  every  turn  his  new-found 
shadow  followed  at  an  inconspicuous  distance. 
The  afternoon  sun  was  gracious,  tinged  with  a 
pleasant  coolness,  and  far  to  the  west  a  blue-gray 
fog  bank  waited  for  evening  to  let  down  the  day's 
warm  barriers.  Fred  Starratt 's  thoughts  were 
abrupt  and  purposeless,  like  the  unsustained 
flights  of  wing-clipped  birds.  He  knew  that  he 
was  being  followed,  and  he  had  a  confused  sense 
of  something  impending,  and  yet  he  was  unable  or 
unwilling  to  face  the  issue  honestly.  There  were 


BROKEN   TO   THE  PLOW  127 

moments  when  he  glimpsed  the  truth,  but  he 
seemed  unmoved  by  these  truant  realizations. 
Was  he  too  tired  to  care  ?  He  used  to  wonder,  when 
he  read  in  the  newspapers  of  some  man  overtaken 
by  an  overwhelming  disgrace,  how  it  was  possible 
to  go  on  living  under  such  circumstances.  Was 
his  indifference  of  this  afternoon  the  preliminary 
move  in  a  long  series  of  heartbreaking  compro 
mises  and  retreats?  he  asked  himself.  But  he  did 
not  attempt  to  answer  any  of  these  darting  ques 
tions.  After  all,  the  sun  was  shining  and  about 
him  the  world  seemed  to  be  swinging  on  with  dis 
arming  normality.  Upon  the  trimmed  lawns  pea 
cocks  strutted  and  shrieked  and  from  remoter  dis 
tances  the  soft  call  of  the  quail  echoed  caressingly. 
It  was  good  to  be  alive,  with  one's  feet  firmly 
planted  on  the  earth.  To  be  alive  and  free! 

He  passed  the  conservatory  and  the  sunken 
gardens,  flamboyant  with  purple-and-gold  pansies; 
he  dawdled  over  the  aviary  and  the  bear  cages. 
He  even  stopped  for  tea  at  the  Japanese  garden, 
throwing  bits  of  sweetened  rice-flour  cakes  to  the 
goldfishes  in  their  chocolate-colored  pond  near  the 
tea  pavilion.  He  found  himself  later  skirting 
Stow  Lake,  pursued  by  flocks  of  ubiquitous  coots, 
bent  upon  any  stray  crumbs  flung  in  their  direction. 
Finally  he  dipped  suddenly  down  into  the  wilder 
reaches  of  the  Park,  taking  aimless  trails  that 
wandered  off  into  sandy  wastes  or  fetched  up 
quite  suddenly  upon  the  trimly  bordered  main 
driveway.  He  always  had  preferred  the  untamed 


128  BROKEN   TO   THE  PLOW 

stretches  that  lay  beyond  Stow  Lake.  Here,  as  a 
young  boy,  he  had  organized  scouting  parties 
when  it  was  still  a  remote,  almost  an  unforested 
sand  pile.  Later,  when  the  trees  had  conquered 
its  bleakness,  Helen  and  he  had  spent  many  a 
Saturday  afternoon  tramping  briskly  through  the 
pines  to  the  ocean.  How  long  ago  that  seemed, 
and  yet  how  very  near !  Not  long  in  point  of  time, 
somehow,  but  long  in  point  of  accessibility.  He 
seemed  to  be  standing,  as  it  were,  upon  the  threshold 
of  a  past  that  he  could  glimpse,  but  not  re-enter. 
Even  Helen  seemed  remote — a  part  of  the  back 
ground  that  had  been,  instead  of  an  equal  spectator 
with  him  in  a  review  of  these  dead  events. 

It  was  nearly  five  o'clock  when  he  drew  near  the 
first  wind-stunted  pine  trees  heralding  the  ocean. 
He  quickened  his  step.  Already  the  breeze  was 
tearing  across  the  unscreened  spaces  and  carrying 
damp  wisps  of  fog  with  it.  As  he  found  his  steps 
swinging  into  the  ocean  highway  he  turned  and 
looked  back.  His  discreet  pursuer  had  disappeared. 
There  was  not  a  soul  in  sight ! 

His  heart  gave  a  sudden  leap.  He  hurried  for 
ward.  A  street  car  was  rounding  the  terminal 
loop  on  its  return  to  town.  He  clattered  aboard. 
He  felt  suddenly  free  and  light  hearted,  almost  gay. 
What  would  he  do  now?  Look  up  Helen  at 
Kilmer's  and  persuade  her  to  dine  with  him  some 
where  downtown?  .  .  .  He  remembered  that  he  had 
not  even  telephoned  her  for  two  days.  The  con 
viction  that  had  settled  upon  him  during  his  walk 


BROKEN   TO   THE  PLOW  129 

through  the  Park  woods  descended  again.  Helen 
seemed  impersonal  and  unapproachable.  .  .  .  He  felt 
a  desire  for  noise  and  conviviality  and  laughter. 
He  decided  to  look  in  at  the  St.  Francis  bar  and 
see  if  he  could  chance  upon  a  hilarious  friend  or  two. 

Starratt  had  overlooked  the  fact  of  war-time 
prohibition  when  he  picked  the  St.  Francis  bar  as 
a  place  of  genial  fellowship.  The  memory  of  its 
old-time  six-o'clock  gayety  was  still  fresh  enough 
to  trick  him.  He  swung  into  its  screened  entrance 
to  find  it  practically  deserted.  The  old  bustle 
and  hoarse  conversation  and  hearty  laughter  were 
replaced  by  dreary  silence.  The  provocative  rattle 
of  ice  in  the  highball  glass,  the  appetizing  smell  of 
baked  ham  from  the  free-lunch  counter,  the  thick, 
pungent  clouds  of  tobacco  smoke — all  had  been 
routed  by  chill,  hypocritical  virtue.  One  or  two  of 
the  tables  were  surrounded  by  solemn  circles  of 
males  getting  speedily  drunk  in  an  effort  to  finish 
up  the  melancholy  remains  filched  from  some 
private  stock,  but  their  attempts  at  light-hearted- 
ness  were  very  sad  and  maudlin.  Fred  was  moving 
away  when  he  heard  his  name  called.  He  turned 
to  find  a  group  of  business  associates  from  Cali 
fornia  Street  sitting  before  two  bottles  of  Scotch, 
which  were  ministering  to  their  rather  dour  con 
viviality.  Starratt  started  to  wave  a  mingled 
greeting  and  farewell  when  his  raised  hand  fell 
heavily  against  his  side — in  the  polished  depths  of 
the  bar's  flawless  mirror  loomed  the  unwelcome 


i3o  BROKEN   TO   THE  PLOW 

figure  that  had  pursued  him  all  day!  ...  He  went 
over  and  joined  his  friends. 

He  had  one  drink  .  .  .  two  .  .  .  another.  Then  he 
lost  count  .  .  .  but  the  supply  seemed  inexhaustible. 
A  sudden  rush  of  high  spirits  keyed  him  tensely. 
He  talked  and  laughed  and  waved  his  arms  about, 
calling  upon  everybody  to  witness  his  light-hearted- 
ness.  Through  the  confused  blur  of  faces  surround 
ing  him  he  caught  an  occasional  glimpse  of  the  thin, 
cruel  lips  and  the  shifting,  beady  eyes  of  his  pursuer 
sitting  over  a  flat  drink  which  he  left  untouched. 

Presently  somebody  in  the  party  suggested  a 
round  of  the  bohemian  joints.  The  motion  was 
noisily  seconded.  .  .  .  Fred  staggered  to  his  feet. 
They  began  with  the  uptown  tenderloin,  drifting 
in  due  time  through  the  Greek  cafes  on  Third 
Street.  Finally  they  crossed  Market  Street  and 
began  to  chatter  into  the  tawdry  dance  halls  of 
upper  Kearny.  Everywhere  the  drinks  flowed  in 
covert  streams,  growing  viler  and  more  nauseous 
as  the  pilgrimage  advanced.  Near  Jackson  Street 
they  came  upon  a  bedraggled  pavilion  of  dubious 
gayety  which  lured  them  downstairs  with  its  ear- 
splitting  jazz  orchestra.  A  horde  of  rapacious 
females  descended  upon  them  like  starving  locusts. 
Suddenly  everybody  in  the  party  seemed  moved 
with  a  desire  for  dancing — except  Fred.  While 
the  others  whirled  away  he  sank  into  a  seat,  staring 
vacantly  ahead.  He  had  reached  the  extreme  point 
of  his  drunkenness  and  he  was  pulling  toward 
sobriety  again.  ...  He  came  out  of  his  tentative 


,  BROKEN   TO   THE  PLOW  131 

stupor  with  the  realization  that  a  woman  was  seating 
herself  opposite  him. 

" What's  your  name?"  he  demanded,  thickly. 

"Ginger,"  she  replied. 

He  took  a  sharper  look.  A  pale,  somewhat 
freckled  face,  topped  by  a  glory  of  fading  red  hair, 
thrust  itself  rather  wistfully  forward  for  his 
inspection. 

"Go  'way!"  he  waved,  disconsolately.  "Go 
'way.  I  don't  wanna  dance !" 

She  smiled  with  the  passive  resistance  of  her 
kind.  "Neither  do  I,"  she  assented.  "Let's  just 
sit  here  and  talk." 

"Don't  wanna  talk!"  he  threw  back,  sullenly. 

"All  right,"  she  agreed;  "anything  you  say.  .  .  . 
Got  a  cigarette?" 

He  drew  out  a  box  and  she  selected  one.  The 
waiter  hovered  about  significantly.  Fred  ordered 
coffee  .  .  .  Ginger  took  Whiterock.  They  were 
silent.  The  music  crashed  and  banged  and  whin 
nied,  and  the  air  grew  thick  with  the  mingled 
odors  of  smoke  and  stale  drinks  and  sex. 

Finally  Fred  leaned  forward,  and  said  in  a 
whisper,  "Tell  me — has  a  snaky -looking  dub  come 
into  this  joint?" 

Ginger  swept  the  room  with  her  glance.  "In  a 
gray  derby  and  a  green  tie?" 

"Yes." 

"He's  over  in  the  corner — talking  to  a  couple  of 
fly  cops." 

He  reached  for  a  cigarette  himself.     His  voice 


i3 2  BROKEN   TO   THE  PLOW 

was  becoming  steadier.  "What  do  you  think  his 
game  is?" 

She  pursed  her  lips.  "Oh,  I  guess  he's  a  private 
detective,"  she  appraised,  shrewdly.  "He  isn't 
quite  heavy  enough  for  a  real  bull." 

He  struck  a  match.  "He's  been  following  me  all 
day,"  he  admitted. 

"Somebody's  keeping  tab,  eh?  ...  Is  friend  wife 
on  the  trail?" 

He  laughed  tonelessly  and  cast  the  match  aside. 
The  sharp  little  face  opposite  was  quickening  with 
interest. 

"No  ...  I  let  a  bad  check  get  out.  .  .  .  You  know 
— no  funds." 

' '  Whew ! ' '  escaped  her.     * '  That  isn't  pretty ! ' ' 

"You're  damned  right  it  isn't!"  he  echoed, 
emphatically. 

She  clutched  at  his  wrist.  "Say,  the  whole  three 
are  coming  this  way.  ...  I  guess  they've  got  a 
warrant.  .  .  .  Don't  fight  back,  whatever  you  do!" 

Her  words  sobered  him.  She  was  right — three 
men  were  coming  toward  his  table.  He  rose  with 
a  flourish  of  dignity. 

"Looking  for  me?"  he  asked. 

"If  your  name  is  Starratt,  we  are,"  one  of  the 
men  said,  moving  up  closely. 

"What's  the  idea?" 

The  spokesman  of  the  group  flashed  his  star. 
"You're  wanted  on  a  bad-check  charge." 

Fred  reached  for  his  hat.  "All  right.  .  .  .  Let's  get 
out  quietly." 


BROKEN   TO   THE  PLOW  133 

His  brain  was  perfectly  clear,  but  he  staggered 
a  trifle  as  he  followed  the  men  along  the  edge  of  the 
dancing  space  to  the  stairway.  The  music  crashed 
furiously.  Fred's  associates  were  giving  all  their 
attention  to  treading  the  uncertain  steps  of  their 
tawdry  bacchanal,  so  they  missed  his  exit. 

Halfway  up  the  stair  leading  to  the  sidewalk 
Fred  was  halted  by  a  touch  upon  his  arm.  He  had 
forgotten  Ginger,  but  there  she  stood  with  that 
childish,  almost  wistful,  look  on  her  face. 

"Say,"  she  demanded,  "can  I  do  anything? 
I've  got  a  pull  if  I  want  to  use  it." 

The  other  three  men  turned  about  and  waited. 
The  snaky  one  laughed.  Fred  looked  at  her 
curiously. 

'  *  You  might  phone  my  wife, ' '  he  returned.  '  *  But 
don't  say  anything  to  the  boys!" 

"Where  does  she  live? ...  I'll  go  now  and  see  her. 
That  is— if— " 

For  a  moment  Fred  Starratt  hesitated.  Would 
it  be  quite  the  thing  to  let  a  woman  like  this  .  .  . 
But  as  quickly  a  sense  of  his  ingratitude  swept  him. 
Whether  it  was  the  thing  or  not,  it  was  impossible 
to  wound  the  one  person  who  stood  so  ready  to 
serve  him.  A  great  compassion  seemed  suddenly 
to  flood  him — for  a  moment  he  forgot  his  own 
plight. 

"I  don't  remember  the  number  of  the  house  .  .  . 
she's  with  friends.  You'll  find  the  name  in  the 
telephone  book  .  .  .  Hilmer — Fourteenth  Avenue. 
Ask  for  Mrs.  Starratt." 


134  BROKEN   TO   THE  PLOW 

"Axel  Hilmer  .  .  .  the  man  who — " 

"He's  a  shipbuilder.     Do  you  know  him?" 

She  smiled  wanly.  "Yes  ...  I  know  lots  of 
people.*' 

Fred  felt  his  arm  jerked  roughly,  and  the  next 
thing  he  found  himself  half  flung,  half  dragged  toward 
the  curb.  Instinctively  he  shook  himself  free. 

"What's  the  matter?"  he  demanded. 

The  ringleader  of  the  group  reached  forward 
and  grabbed  him  roughly. 

"D'yer  think  we've  got  all  night  to  stand 
around  here  while  you  turn  on  sob  stuff  with  a  dance- 
hall  tart?  You  shut  up  and  come  with  us!" 

"I'm  coming  as  quickly  as  I  can,"  Starratt 
retorted. 

He  was  answered  by  a  hard-fisted  blow  in  the 
pit  of  the  stomach.  He  doubled  up  with  a  gasping 
groan.  A  crowd  began  to  gather.  Presently  he 
recovered  his  breath.  The  blow  had  completely 
sobered  and  calmed  him.  He  felt  that  he  could 
face  anything  now.  The  jail  was  just  across  the 
street,  so  they  walked,  pursued  by  a  knot  of 
curious  idlers. 

They  went  through  a  narrow  passageway, 
separating  the  Hall  of  Justice  from  the  jails,  and 
rang  a  bell  for  the  elevator.  In  stepping  into  the 
cage  Fred  Starratt  tripped  and  lurched  forward. 
He  was  rewarded  by  a  stinging  slap  upon  the  face. 
He  drew  himself  up,  clenching  his  fists.  He  had 
often  wondered  how  it  felt  to  be  seized  with  a  desire 
to  shoot  a  man  down  in  cold  blood.  Now  he  knew. 


CHAPTER  IX 

THE  men  at  the  booking  desk  treated  Fred 
Starratt  with  a  rough  courtesy.  They  did  not 
make  the  required  search  of  his  person  unduly 
humiliating,  and,  when  they  were  through,  one  of 
the  men  said,  not  unkindly: 

4  *  We  can  ring  for  a  messenger  if  you  want  to  send 
word  to  your  folks;  .  .  .  it's  against  the  rules  to 
telephone." 

"I've  notified  them,"  Fred  returned,  crisply. 
It  was  curious  to  discover  that  he  had  no  doubts 
concerning  Ginger's  delivery  of  his  message. 

"Is  there  a  chance  for  you  to  get  bailed  out 
to-night?"  the  same  man  inquired. 

Fred  hesitated.  "There  may  be,"  he  said, 
finally. 

They  put  him  in  a  temporary  cell  with  three 
others — two  white  men  and  a  Chinese,  who  had 
been  arrested  for  smuggling  opium.  The  floor  was 
of  thick  boards  sloping  toward  the  center,  and  in 
a  corner  was  a  washbasin.  There  were  no  seats. 
One  of  the  white  men  was  pacing  up  and  down 
with  the  aimless  ferocity  of  an  animal  freshly  caged. 
At  Fred's  entrance  the  younger  and  quieter  of 
these  two  looked  up  and  said,  eagerly: 

"Got  a  smoke?" 


136  BROKEN   TO   THE  PLOW 

Fred  drew  out  a  box  of  cigarettes  and  tossed  it  to 
him.  The  other  white  man  came  forward ;  even  the 
Chinese  was  moved  to  interest. 

Fred  saw  the  box  passed  from  one  to  the  other. 
There  did  not  seem  to  be  any  color  line  drawn 
about  this  transient  solace.  Fred  took  a  smoke 
himself. 

''What  are  you  up  for?"  the  younger  man 
inquired. 

Fred  experienced  a  shock.  "Oh  .  .  .  you  see  .  .  . 
I  just  got  caught  in  a  jam.  It  will  come  out  all 
right." 

It  sounded  ridiculous— this  feeble  attempt  at 
pride,  and  Fred  regretted  it,  once  it  escaped  him. 
But  his  questioner  was  not  put  out  of  countenance. 

"Well,  if  you  ve  got  a  pull,  it's  easy;  other 
wise — "  He  finished  with  a  shrug  and  went  on 
smoking. 

Fred  looked  at  him  intently.  He  was  a  lad  not 
much  over  twenty,  with  thick  black  hair  and  very 
deep-blue  eyes  and  an  indefinable  quality  which 
made  his  rather  irregular  features  seem  much  more 
delicate  than  they  really  were. 

"What's  your  trouble?"  Fred  asked,  suddenly. 

The  boy  grinned.  "I  rolled  a  guy  for  twenty 
dollars  in  Portsmouth  Square.  ...  He  was  drunk, 
at  that,"  he  finished,  as  if  in  justification. 

At  this  moment  the  door  of  the  cell  was  opened. 
The  three  white  men  started  forward  expectantly. 
But  it  was  the  Chinese  who  was  wanted.  A  group 
of  his  countrymen  had  come  to  bail  him  out. 


BROKEN   TO   THE  PLOW  137 

The  man  who  had  been  silent  suddenly  spoke  to 
the  policeman  as  he  was  closing  the  door  again. 

''You  might  as  well  lock  me  up  proper  for  the 
night,"  he  flung  out,  bitterly.  "I  guess  they're  not 
coming  to  get  me  now." 

The  policeman  led  him  away,  in  the  wake  of  the 
disappearing  Chinese.  The  youth  turned  to  Star- 
ratt  with  a  chuckle : 

"The  old  boy's  kinda  peeved,  ain't  he?  Well, 
he'll  get  over  that  after  a  while.  .  .  .  The  first  time 
they  jugged  me  I  thought — " 

"Then  you've  been  up  before?" 

"Before?  .  .  .  Say,  do  I  look  like  a  dead  one? 
This  isn't  a  bad  habit  after  you  get  used  to 
it.  ...  So  far  I've  only  made  the  county  jails. 
Some  day  I  suppose  I'll  graduate.  .  .  .  But  I'm 
pretty  wise — vagrancy  Is  about  all  they've  ever 
pinned  on  me." 

Fred  looked  at  his  new  friend  curiously.  There 
didn't  seem  to  be  anything  particularly  vicious 
about  the  youth.  He  merely  had  learned  how  to  get 
his  hands  on  easy  money  and  jails  were  an  incident 
in  his  career.  Without  being  asked,  he  described 
his  first  tilt  with  the  law.  He  had  come,  a  youth 
of  seventeen,  from  a  country  town  up  North. 
He  had  run  away  from  home,  to  be  exact;  there 
was  a  stepmother  or  some  equally  ancient  and 
honorable  excuse.  He  had  arrived  in  San  Fran 
cisco  in  January  without  money  or  friends  or  any 
great  moral  equipment,  and  after  a  week  of  pur 
poseless  bumming  he  had  been  picked  up  by  a 


138  BROKEN   TO   THE  PLOW 

policeman  and  charged  with  vagrancy.  The  oblig 
ing  judge  who  heard  his  case  gave  him  twenty- 
four  hours  to  leave  town.  He  went,  in  company 
with  a  professional  tramp,  upon  the  brake  beams 
of  a  freight  train  that  pulled  out  for  Stockton 
that  very  night.  But  at  Stockton  the  train  was 
overhauled  by  policemen  in  wait  for  just  these 
unwelcome  strangers  from  a  rival  town,  and  the 
two  were  told  to  go  back  promptly  where  they 
came  from.  They  got  into  San  Francisco  more 
dead  than  alive,  and  then  the  inevitable  happened. 
They  were  haled  before  the  selfsame  judge  who 
had  given  the  youth  such  an  amazing  chance  to 
get  started  right.  He  treated  them  both  to  thirty 
days  in  the  county  jail,  and  the  youth  emerged  a 
wiser  but  by  no  means  a  sadder  man.  He  had 
learned,  among  other  things,  that  if  one  were  to  be 
jailed  one  might  just  as  well  be  jailed  for  cause. 
The  charge  of  vagrancy  was  very  inclusive,  and  a 
man  could  skirt  very  near  the  edge  of  felony  and 
still  manage  to  achieve  a  nominal  punishment. 
He  told  all  this  simply,  naturally,  naively — as 
if  he  were  entertaining  an  acquaintance  with  a 
drawing-room  anecdote.  When  he  finished,  Fred 
inquired : 

"And  how  about  bail  to-night?" 

The  youth  shrugged.  "Well,  I  dunno.  I  sent 
word  to  a  girl  who — " 

At  that  moment  the  attendant  appeared  again. 
He  had  come  after  the  youth — evidently  the  girl 
had  proved  herself. 


BROKEN   TO   THE  PLOW  139 

"So  long,"  the  boy  said  to  Fred,  as  he  went 
through  the  door.  "If  you've  got  a  dame  stuck 
on  you  there's  always  a  chance." 

Fred  went  over  and  leaned  against  the  wash 
basin.  His  companions  had  been  diverting.  In 
their  company  he  had  ceased  to  think  very  definitely 
about  his  own  plight.  Now  he  was  alone.  He 
wondered  what  Helen  would  do.  ...  He  put  his 
hand  to  his  cheek — it  was  still  smarting  from  the 
blow  that  had  waked  his  primitive  hatred.  .  .  . 

He  was  standing  in  this  same  position  before  the 
washbasin,  smoking  furiously,  when  the  attendant 
came  for  him. 

"It's  past  midnight,"  the  man  said.  "I  guess 
your  folks  ain't  coming." 

Fred  stirred.  "No,  I  guess  not,"  he  echoed,  with 
resignation. 

The  officer  took  his  arm.  "Well,  we'll  have  to 
get  fixed  up  for  the  night,"  he  announced. 

Fred  threw  his  cigarette  butt  on  the  floor  and 
stepped  on  it. 

The  next  morning  at  eleven  o'clock  Fred  Starratt 
heard  his  name  bawled  through  the  corridors  and 
he  was  led  out  to  the  room  where  prisoners  were 
allowed  to  receive  their  lawyers  or  converse  with 
relatives  and  friends  through  the  barred  and 
screened  opening. 

A  man  was  exchanging  tearful  confidences  with 
his  wife  and  baby  as  he  clung  to  the  bars.  The 
woman  was  sending  a  brave  smile  across,  but  the 


140  BROKEN   TO   THE  PLOW 

wire  mesh  between  gave  her  face  the  same  unreality 
that  a  gauze  drop  in  a  play  gives  to  the  figures  on 
the  other  side.  A  strange  man  was  ushered  in. 

4 'Mr.  Starratt?"  he  inquired. 

Fred  inclined  his  head. 

"My  name  is  Watson — from  the  firm  of  Kimball 
&  Devine.  We're  attorneys  for  Mr.  Hilmer. 
He  asked  me  to  run  in  and  see  you  this  morning. 
Just  what  did  happen?" 

Fred  recited  the  events  briefly.  When  he  had 
finished,  the  attorney  said: 

"Everything  depends  on  this  man  Brauer.  I'll 
have  to  get  in  touch  with  him  to-day.  Hilmer  told 
me  to  use  my  own  judgment  about  bail.  ...  I  guess 
it's  all  right." 

A  hot  flush  overspread  Fred's  face,  but  it  died 
quickly.  He  could  stand  any  insult  now.  All 
night  he  had  been  brooding  on  that  slap  upon  the 
cheek.  A  clenched  fist  had  an  element  of  fairness 
in  it,  but  the  bare  palm  was  always  the  mark  of  a 
petty  tyrant.  It  was  thus  that  a  woman  struck 
...  or  a  piddling  official  ...  or  a  mob  bent  on 
humiliation.  They  smote  Christ  in  the  same  way — 
with  their  hands.  He  remembered  the  phrase  per 
fectly  and  the  circumstance  that  had  impressed  it 
so  indelibly  on  his  mind.  His  people  had  seen  to 
it  that  he  had  attended  Sabbath  school,  but  he 
was  well  past  ten  before  they  had  taken  him  to 
church.  And,  out  of  the  hazy  impression  of  the 
first  sermon  he  had  fidgeted  through,  he  remembered 
the  picture  of  Christ  which  the  good  man  in  the 


BROKEN  TO  THE  PLOW  141 

pulpit  had  drawn,  sitting  in  a  mockery  of  purple, 
receiving  the  open-palmed  blows  of  cowards.  In 
his  extremity  the  story  recurred  with  sharp  insist 
ence  and  all  night  he  had  been  haunted  by  this 
thorn-crowned  remembrance. 

Kilmer's  messenger  was  waiting  for  him  to  speak. 
He  gave  a  shrug. 

"It  really  doesn't  matter,"  he  said. 

"Oh,  come  now,  Mr.  Starratt,"  Watson  broke  in, 
reprovingly.  "That  isn't  any  way  to  talk.  You've 
got  to  keep  your  spirits  up.  Things  might  be 
worse.  It's  lucky  you've  got  a  friend  like  Hilmer. 
He's  a  man  that  can  do  things  for  you,  if  anyone 


can." 


Fred  smiled  wanly.  "I  don't  suppose  you  saw 
my  wife,  by  any  chance,"  he  ventured. 

"No.  .  .  .  Fact  is,  she's  in  bed.  .  .  .  Hilmer  said 
the  news  completely  bowled  her  over.  .  .  .  That's 
another  reason  you've  got  to  buck  up — for  her 
sake,  you  know!" 

It  ended  in  Watson  putting  up  the  bail  money 
and  their  departing  in  a  yellow  taxicab  for  an 
obscure  hotel  in  Ellis  Street. 

"This  is  the  best  arrangement,  under  the  cir 
cumstances,"  Watson  explained.  "You'll  want  to 
be  quiet  and  lie  low." 

Fred  assented  indifferently.  He  was  very  tired 
and  all  he  longed  for  was  a  chance  to  sleep. 

In  less  than  fifteen  minutes  after  his  release  Fred 
Starratt  found  himself  alone  in  the  narrow  imper 
sonal  room  where  Kilmer's  emissary  had  installed 

10 


'142  BROKEN  TO   THE  PLOW 

him.     He  did  not  wait  to  undress — he  threw  him 
self  upon  the  bed  and  slept  until  midnight. 

He  awoke  startled  and  unrefreshed.  A  newsboy 
just  under  his  window  was  calling  the  morning 
papers  with  monotonous  stridency.  Fred  jumped 
to  his  feet  and  peered  out.  People  drifted  by  on 
the  homeward  stretch  in  little  pattering  groups — 
actors,  chorus  girls,  waiters,  and  melancholy  bar 
tenders.  The  usual  night  wind  had  died  ...  it  had 
grown  warmer.  He  turned  toward  his  bed  again. 
The  walls  of  the  room  seemed  suddenly  to  contract. 
He  had  a  desire  to  get  out  into  the  open.  ...  He 
freshened  up  and  felt  better. 

He  did  not  wait  for  the  elevator,  but  walked 
down  the  dim  stairway  to  the  narrow  hotel  lobby, 
flooded  by  a  white,  searching  light.  For  a  moment 
he  stood  in  curious  confusion  at  the  foot  of  the 
stairs  that  had  so  suddenly  spewed  him  from  half- 
light  to  glare,  his  eyes  blinking  aimlessly.  At  that 
moment  he  saw  a  familiar  figure  rising  from  one 
of  the  morris  chairs  near  the  plate-glass  window. 
He  stared — it  was  the  private  detective  who  had 
hounded  him  all  day  Saturday.  Slowly  he  retraced 
his  steps  and  found  his  way  back  to  his  room  again. 
.  .  .  No  doubt  Brauer,  fearful  lest  his  victim  would 
escape  before  he  arranged  the  proper  warrants  for 
arrest,  had  been  responsible  for  this  man's  presence 
in  the  first  instance,  but  who  was  hiring  him  now? 
.  .  .  Hilmer?  .  .  .  Well,  why  not?  Surely  a  man 
who  risked  bail  money  was  justified  in  seeing 


BROKEN   TO   THE  PLOW  143 

that  the  object  of  his  charity  kept  faith.  .  .  .  Fred 
Starratt  sat  down  and  laughed  unpleasantly.  What 
a  contempt  everybody  must  have  for  him!  What 
a  contempt  he  had  for  himself!  He  threw  himself 
sprawling  his  full  length  upon  the  rumpled  bed. 
But  this  time  it  was  not  to  sleep.  Instead,  he 
stared  up  at  the  ceiling  and  puffed  cigarette  after 
cigarette  until  morning  flooded  the  room.  ...  At 
eight  o'clock  he  phoned  down  to  have  his  breakfast 
sent  up. 

Toward  noon  Watson  came  in.  "I  saw  Brauer 
yesterday  and  again  this  morning.  .  .  .  What  did 
you  do  to  make  him  so  sore  ? " 

Fred  shrugged.  "I  guess  I  took  a  superior  air. 
...  A  man  who  plays  up  his  honesty  is  always 
nasty.  ...  I  meant  well — most  fools  do!" 

Watson  stared  uncomprehendingly.  "The  best 
thing  I  can  get  this  man  Brauer  to  agree  to  is  a 
compromise.  .  .  .  He's  eager  for  his  pound  of  flesh." 

"What  do  you  mean?" 

"He  wants  to  punish  you  .  .  .  even  the  score 
some  way.  .  .  .  After  I  saw  him  yesterday  I  went 
out  and  talked  to  Hilmer.  .  .  .  We  outlined  a  plan 
that  Brauer  is  willing  to  accept.  Hilmer  has  a 
pull,  you  know  .  .  .  and  if  the  scheme  goes  through 
there  '11  be  no  trial,  no  notoriety,  nothing  disagree 
able.  .  .  .  We'll  make  it  plain  to  the  authorities  that 
you  gave  out  this  check  when  you  were  drunk. 
Habitual  intemperance  .  .  .  that's  to  be  our  plea. 
...  It  means  a  few  months  for  you  at  the  state's 


144  BROKEN   TO   THE  PLOW 

Home  for  Inebriates  ...  a  bit  of  a  rest,  really.  .  .  . 
I'd  say  you  were  extremely  lucky." 

Fred  was  beyond  so  futile  an  emotion  as  anger. 
Somehow  he  was  not  even  surprised,  but  he  had 
energy  enough  left  for  sarcasm.  He  looked  squarely 
at  Watson  as  he  said  : 

"Why  not  tell  the  truth?  If  any  judge  is  willing 
to  convict  me  on  my  intentions  I'll  go  to  jail  gladly. 
It  seems  to  me  that  it  ought  to  be  easy  enough 
to  prove  that  I  gave  that  check  to  Brauer  with 
every  prospect  in  the  world  that  I  could  cover  it. 
He  tricked  me,  really." 

"Yes,  but  how  can  you  prove  it?" 

"Why,  there's  my  wife.     She  heard  every  bit  of 


"My  dear  man,  you're  not  going  to  drag  her  into 
this  mess,  I  hope.  What  we're  trying  to  do  is  to 
hush  this  thing  up,  so  that  in  due  time  you  can 
come  back  and  take  your  place  in  society  again 
without  scandal." 

"How  are  you  going  to  stop  Brauer  's  tongue?" 

"Oh,  we'll  see  that  he  keeps  his  counsel.  .  .  . 
Hilmer  will  throw  him  a  sop.  .  .  .  He's  going  in 
with  this  man  Kendrick,  you  know." 

Fred  rose  and  went  over  to  the  washbasin  and 
drew  himself  a  drink.  Finally  he  spoke.  "It's 
a  damned  lie  —  the  wrhole  thing.  That  is  enough 
to  queer  it  with  me.  I'm  not  a  common  drunkard, 
and  you  know  it." 

"You  were  drunk  when  they  arrested  you." 

"Well  .  .  .  yes." 


BROKEN   TO   THE  PLOW  145 

"And  that's  what  gives  us  such  a  good  chance. 
.  .  .  Now  look  here,  Starratt,  you  can  take  a  tip 
from  me  or  leave  it,  just  as  you  see  fit.  A  trial 
for  a  charge  such  as  you're  up  against  is  a  damned 
nasty  business.  You  get  publicity  that  you  never 
live  down.  And  just  now  there's  a  big  sentiment 
developing  against  letting  people  off  easily  once 
the  thing  is  made  public.  The  judges  are  soaking 
people  hard.  .  .  .  You  might  get  off,  and  then  again 
you  might  not.  Would  you  like  to  put  your  wife 
in  the  position  of  having  a  convict  for  a  husband? 
.  .  .  Think  it  over." 

Fred  sat  down.  He  was  not  beaten  yet.  After 
all,  what  did  Helen  think  about  this  arrangement? 
Had  they  spoken  to  her?  Some  of  her  methods 
in  the  past  had  not  been  to  his  taste,  but  they  were 
the  best  means  to  an  end  that  she  knew.  And  she 
always  had  been  loyal.  Ah  yes,  in  a  scratch  women 
did  rise  to  the  occasion !  For  an  instant  he  remem 
bered  the  parting  comment  of  his  cell  companion 
of  Saturday  night : 

"If  you've  got  a  dame  stuck  on  you  there's  al 
ways  a  chance." 

He  turned  to  Watson  with  a  smile  of  triumph. 

"I'll  leave  the  thing  to  Mrs.  Starratt,"  he  said, 
confidently.  "I  think  I  can  depend  upon  her  to 
stand  by  me,  whatever  happens.  ..." 

Watson  reached  into  his  inner  coat  pocket. 

"I've  a  note  from  her  here,"  he  said,  handing 
Starratt  a  square  envelope. 

Fred  broke  the  seal  and  unfolded  the  contents 


146  BROKEN   TO   THE  PLOW 

deliberately.  He  read  very  slowly.  .  .  .  When  he 
had  finished  he  read  it  through  again.  He  sat  for 
some  moments  on  the  edge  of  the  bed,  tapping  his 
lips  with  a  tentative  finger.  Finally  he  rose. 

"Well,  Mr.  Watson,"  he  said,  bitterly,  "I  said 
I'd  stand  by  Mrs.  Starratt's  decision.  And  I'm 
a  man  of  my  word." 

Watson  rose  also.  "You  won't  regret  this,  I'm 
sure,"  he  ventured,  heartily.  "Meanwhile  I'll  get 
busy  pulling  wires  at  once.  It  won't  do  to  let  this 
thing  get  cold.  I'll  go  right  out  and  see  Hilmer 
now. . . .  Any  message  you'd  like  to  give  your  wife? " 

Fred  looked  at  the  man  before  him  searchingly. 
"No  .  .  .  none!" 

Watson  bowed  himself  out.  .  .  .  Fred  Starratt  put 
both  hands  to  his  temples. 


CHAPTER  X 

THE  days  that  followed  passed  in  a  blur.  Fred 
Starr  at  t  went  through  the  motions  of  living, 
but  they  were  only  motions.  Between  the  in 
tervals  of  legal  adjustments,  court  examinations, 
and  formal  red  tape  he  would  lie  upon  his  narrow 
bed  at  the  hotel  reading  his  wife's  message — that 
sharp-edged  message  which  had  shorn  him  of  his 
strength — as  if  to  dull  further  his  blunted  sensi 
bilities.  In  all  this  time  he  saw  only  Watson.  He 
did  not  ask  for  Hilmer  or  Helen.  But  one  day  the 
attorney  said  to  him : 

"Your  wife  is  still  ill,  otherwise — " 
"Yes,  yes  ...  of  course,"  Fred  assented,  dis 
missing  the  subject  with  an  impatient  shrug. 

Finally,   on  a  certain  afternoon  at  about  two 
o'clock,  Watson  came  in  quite  unexpectedly. 

"I  think  by  to-night  everything  will  be  settled. 
.  .  .  What  can  I  do  for  you  ? .  .  .  Perhaps  you  would 
like  to  go  to  your  apartment  and  get  some  things 
together.  .  .  .  Or  see  a  friend.  .  .  .  Just  say  the  word." 
Fred  roused  himself.  A  fleeting  rebellion  flick 
ered  and  died.  He  wanted  nothing  .  .  .  least  of  all 
to  so  much  as  see  his  former  dwelling  place.  He 
made  only  one  request. 

"If  you're  passing  that  dance  hall  where  they 


148  BROKEN   TO   THE  PLOW 

arrested  me — you  know,  near  Jackson  Street — 
drop  in  and  ask  for  a  girl  called  Ginger.  I'd  like 
to  see  her." 

Watson  smiled  widely.  .  .  . 

The  girl  Ginger  came  that  very  afternoon.  She 
was  dressed  very  quietly  in  black,  with  only  a  faint 
trace  of  make-up  on  her  cheeks.  Almost  anyone 
would  have  mistaken  her  for  a  drab  little  shopgirl. 
Fred  felt  awkward  in  her  presence. 

"I'm  going  away  to-night — for  some  time," 
he  said,  when  she  had  seated  herself.  "And  I 
wanted  to  thank  you  for  your  interest  when — " 

She  shook  her  head.  "That  wasn't  anything," 
she  answered. 

He  wondered  what  next  to  say.  It  was  she  who 
spoke  finally. 

"I  suppose  you  got  out  of  your  mess  all  right," 
she  half  queried. 

He  opened  his  cigarette  case  and  offered  her  a 
smoke.  She  declined. 

"Well,  not  altogether.  .  .  .  My  friend  Hilmer 
worked  a  compromise.  ...  I'm  going  to  a  place  to 
sober  up. "  He  laughed  bitterly. 

She  folded  her  hands.  "One  of  those  private 
sanitariums,  I  suppose,  where  rich  guys  bluff  it 
out  until  everything  blows  over." 

"No,  you're  wrong  again.  .  .  .  I'm  going  summer 
ing  in  a  state  hospital." 

Her  hands,  suddenly  unclasped,  lifted  and  fell  in 
startled  flight.  "An  insane  asylum?"  she  gasped. 


BROKEN   TO   THE  PLOW  149 

He  leaned  forward.     "Why  do  you  say  that?" 

"Because  it's  the  only  place  in  this  state  where 
they  send  drunks.  ...  I  know  plenty  who've  been 
through  that  game.  .  .  .  You  can't  tell  me  anything 
about  that." 

He  stared  at  her  in  silence  and  presently  she  said : 

"What  are  they  doing  to  you,  anyway?  Rail 
roading  you?  I  don't  believe  you  know  where  you 
are  going." 

He  shrugged  wearily.  "No;  you're  right.  And 
I  don't  much  care." 

"Why  didn't  you  send  for  me?"  she  demanded. 
"That  night  when  they  got  you  I  told  you  I  had 
a  pull.  .  .  .I'm  not  a  Hilmer,  but  I  can  work  a  few 
people  myself.  ...  I  haven't  always  been  a  cheap 
skate.  There  was  a  time  when  I  had  them  fighting 
over  me.  And  that  wasn't  so  long  ago,  either.  .  .  . 
I'm  still  young — younger  than  a  lot  that  get  by. 
But,  anyway,  I've  got  a  lot  of  old-memory  stuff 
up  my  sleeve  that  can  make  some  people  step 
about  pretty  lively.  .  .  .  There's  more  than  one  man 
in  this  town  who  would  just  as  soon  I  kept  my 
mouth  shut.  ...  I  could  even  run  Hilmer  around  the 
ring  once  or  twice  if  I  wanted  to." 

He  felt  a  bit  tremulous,  but  he  put  a  tight  rein 
upon  his  emotions. 

"It's  very  good  of  you,"  he  said,  "but,  really,  I 
couldn't  quite  have  that,  you  know.  ...  I  don't 
mean  to  be  ungrateful  or  unkind,  but  there  are 
some  things  that — " 

She  laughed.    ' '  Oh  yes,  I  know.  .  .  .  You  feel  that 


1 50  BROKEN   TO   THE  PLOW 

way  now,  of  course.  .  .  .  You're  a  gentleman;  I 
understand  that.  .  .  .  And  I  haven't  run  up  against 
many  gentlemen  in  my  day.  .  .  .  Oh,  there  were  a  lot 
who  had  plenty  of  money  and  they  were  polite 
enough  when  it  didn't  matter  .  .  .  but  .  .  .  Well, 
I  know  the  real  thing  when  I  see  it.  ...  You're 
going  to  that  hell  hole,  too,  just  for  that  very 
reason.  .  .  .  Because  you  haven't  got  the  face  to  be 
nasty.  ..." 

He  crumpled  the  unlighted  cigarette  in  his  hand 
and  flung  it  from  him. 

"What  do  you  know  about  me?"  he  asked. 

"Women  aren't  fools!"  she  retorted.  "And 
least  of  all  women  like  me!  ...  I  wish  to  God  I'd 
known  you  sooner!" 

He  watched  the  quivering  revelations  run  in 
startled  flight  across  her  face,  hiding  themselves 
as  swiftly  behind  the  dull  shadows  of  indifference. 
For  a  moment  the  room  seemed  flooded  in  a  truant 
flash  of  sunshine.  She  seemed  at  once  incredibly 
old  and  as  incredibly  touched  with  a  vagrant 
youth.  How  eagerly  she  must  have  given  herself! 
How  eagerly  she  could  give  herself  again! 

He  rose  in  his  seat,  confused.  She  seemed  to 
have  taken  it  for  a  sign  of  dismissal,  for  she  followed 
his  example. 

1 '  Maybe  it  isn't  too  late, ' '  she  faltered.  ' '  Maybe 
I  could  work  that  pull  I've  got  ...  if  you  want  me 
to." 

He  shook  his  head.  "It's  out  of  my  hands,"  he 
answered. 


BROKEN   TO   THE  PLOW  151 

She  moved  to  the  door,  as  if  to  place  a  proper 
distance  between  them. 

"What  does  your  wife  think  about  it?" 

He  shrugged. 

"You  won't  like  what  I'm  going  to  say,"  she 
flung  out,  defiantly.  "But  that  night  when  I  saw 
your  wife  /  knew." 

"Knew  what?" 

"That  she  wasn't  playing  fair.  ..."  Her  face 
was  lighted  with  a  primitive  malevolence.  "She 
isn't  straight!" 

He  tried  to  pull  himself  up  in  prideful  refutation, 
but  the  effort  failed.  He  was  turning  away  de 
feated  when  a  knock  sounded  on  the  door.  Watson 
entered.  Ginger  drew  herself  flatly  against  the 
wall.  The  attorney  gave  a  significant  glance  in 
her  direction  as  he  said  to  Starratt: 

"Your  wife  is  waiting  in  the  hall  .  .  .  just  around 
the  corner.  I  thought  it  best  to  .  .  ." 

Ginger  came  forward  quickly.  "Good-by!"  she 
said,  hurriedly. 

He  put  out  a  hand  to  her.  She  moved  a  little 
nearer  and,  suddenly,  quite  suddenly,  she  kissed  him. 
He  drew  back  a  little,  and  presently  she  was  gone 

He  looked  up  to  find  Helen  standing  before  him. 
She  was  a  little  pale  and  her  lips  more  scarlet  than 
ever,  and  her  thick,  black  eyebrows  sharply  defined. 
He  had  never  seen  her  look  so  disagreeably 
handsome. 

"That  woman  who  just  went  out,"  she  began, 
coolly,  "she's  the  same  one  who — " 


152  BROKEN   TO   THE  PLOW 

"Yes,"  he  interrupted,  crisply. 

"Who  is  she?" 

He  looked  at  her  steadily;  she  did  not  flinch. 
"A  friend  of  mine." 

Her  lip  curled  disdainfully.  "Oh!"  she  said, 
and  she  sat  down. 

Toward  evening  they  came  for  him,  or  rather 
Watson  did,  with  a  taxicab. 

"Everything  has  gone  nicely,"  Watson  explained, 
pridefully.  "You  certainly  were  lucky  in  having 
Hilmer  for  a  friend  ...  no  humiliation,  no  pub 
licity." 

Fred,  standing  before  the  bureau  mirror,  brushed 
his  hair.  "Where  are  you  taking  me  now?"  he 
inquired. 

"To  the  detention  hospital.  .  .  .  You'll  stay 
there  a  week  or  so  for  observation.  .  .  .  It's  a 
mere  form." 

"And  from  there?" 

"To  the  state  hospital  at  Fairview." 

Fred  Starratt  flung  down  the  brush.  "Why 
don't  you  call  it  by  its  right  name?  .  .  .  I'm  told  it's 
an  insane  asylum." 

Watson  stared  and  then  came  forward  with  a 
little  threatening  gesture.  "You  better  not  start 
any  rough-house,  Starratt — at  the  eleventh  hour!" 
he  admonished,  with  a  significant  warmth. 

Fred  turned  slowly,  breaking  into  a  laugh. 
"Rough-house?"  he  echoed.  "Don't  be  afraid. 
.  .  .  I've  got  to  the  curious  stage  now.  I  want  to 


BROKEN   TO   THE  PLOW  153 

see  the  whole  picture."     He  reached  for  his  hat. 
"I'm  ready  .  .  .  let's  go.' ' 

A  half  hour  later  Fred  Starratt  was  booked  at  the 
detention  hospital.  They  took  away  his  clothes 
and  gave  him  a  towel  and  a  nightgown  and  led 
him  to  a  bathroom.  .  .  .  Presently  he  was  shown  to 
his  cell-like  room.  Overhead  the  fading  day 
filtered  in  ghostly  fashion  through  a  skylight;  an 
iron  bed  stood  against  the  wall.  There  was  not 
another  stick  of  furniture  in  sight. 

He  crawled  into  his  bed  and  the  attendant  left 
him,  switching  on  an  electric  light  from  the  outside. 
A  nurse  with  supper  followed  shortly — a  bowl  of 
thin  soup  and  two  slices  of  dry  bread.  Fred 
Starratt  lifted  the  bowl  to  his  lips  and  drank  a  few 
mouthfuls.  The  stuff  was  without  flavor,  but  it 
quenched  his  burning  thirst.  .  .  .  After  a  while  he 
broke  the  bread  into  small  bits — not  only  because 
he  was  hungry,  but  because  he  was  determined  to 
eat  this  bitter  meal  to  the  last  crumb.  When  he 
had  finished  he  felt  mysteriously  sealed  to  in 
difference. 

The  nurse  came  in  for  the  tray  and  he  asked  her 
to  switch  off  the  light.  He  lay  for  hours,  open- 
eyed,  in  the  gloom,  while  wraithlike  memories 
materialized  and  vanished  as  mysteriously.  Some 
how  the  incidents  of  his  life  nearest  in  point  of  time 
seemed  the  remotest.  Only  his  youth  lay  within 
easy  reach,  and  his  childhood  nearest  of  all.  He 
was  traveling  back  .  .  .  back  .  .  .  perhaps  in  the  end 


154  BROKEN   TO   THE  PLOW 

oblivion  would  wrap  him  in  its  healing  mantle 
and  he  would  wait  to  be  made  perfect  and  whole 
again  in  the  flaming  crucible  of  a  new  birth.  .  .  . 
Gradually  the  mists  of  remembrance  faded,  lost 
their  outline  .  .  .  became  confused,  and  he  slept. 

He  awoke  with  a  shiver.  A  piercing  scream  was 
curdling  the  silence.  From  the  other  side  of  the 
thin  partition  came  shrieks,  curses,  mad  laughter. 
He  heard  the  heavy  tramp  of  attendants  in  the  hall 
way  .  .  .  doors  quickly  opened  and  slammed  shut. 
.  .  .  There  followed  the  sounds  of  scuffling,  the  reel 
ing  impact  of  several  bodies  against  the  wall  .  .  . 
then  blows  of  shuddering  softness,  one  last  shriek 
.  .  .  dead  silence! 

He  sat  up  in  bed — alive  and  quivering.  Was 
this  the  rebirth  that  the  swooning  hours  had  held 
in  store  for  him  ? .  .  .  Quickly  life  came  flooding  back. 
Indifference  fell  from  him.  In  one  blinding  flash 
his  new  condition  was  revealed.  His  life  had  been 
a  futile  compromise.  He  had  sowed  passivity  and 
he  had  reaped  a  barren  harvest  of  negative  virtues. 
He  would  compromise  again,  and  he  would  be 
passive  again,  and  he  would  bow  his  neck  to  au 
thority  .  .  .  but  from  this  moment  on  he  would 
wither  the  cold  fruits  of  such  enforced  planting  in  a 
steadily  rising  flame  of  understanding.  He  knew 
now  the  meaning  of  the  word  "revelation." 


CHAPTER  XI 

'"FHEY  kept  Fred  Starratt  in  bed  for  two  weeks, 
•*•  and  one  morning  when  the  sun  was  flooding 
through  the  skylight  with  soul-warming  radiance 
they  brought  him  his  clothes  and  he  knew  that  the 
prologue  to  the  drama  of  his  humiliation  was  over. 
He  crawled  to  his  feet  and  looked  down  upon  his 
body  wasted  by  days  of  enforced  idleness  and 
fasting.  He  dropped  back  upon  the  bed,  ex 
hausted.  The  sun,  striking  him  squarely,  grad 
ually  flamed  him  with  feeble  energy.  He  straight 
ened  himself  and  dressed  slowly. 

When  he  had  finished  the  sun  still  poured  its 
golden  shower  into  the  room.  He  rose  to  his  feet 
and  lifted  his  chilled  hands  high  to  receive  its 
blessing.  He  felt  the  blood  tingle  through  his 
transparent  fingers. 

In  the  next  room  he  heard  the  tramping  of  feet 
and  a  feeble  curse  or  two.  He  dropped  his  hands 
and  sat  down  again.  The  nurse  came  in  with  his 
breakfast. 

"The  man  next  door?"  he  asked.  "Is  he  leav 
ing  to-day,  too?" 

"Yes." 

"Where  does  he  go?" 

"To  Fairview." 


1 56  BROKEN   TO   THE  PLOW 

A  memory  of  that  first  night  with  its  piercing 
terror  sent  a  shiver  through  him. 

"They  brought  him  in  the  same  day  I  came,"  he 
ventured,  half  musingly.  "At  the  beginning  he 
made  a  lot  of  noise,  but  lately  ..." 

She  set  the  tray  down  upon  the  bed.  "They 
had  to  put  him  in  a  strait- jacket,"  she  said, 
significantly.  "He's  quite  hopeless.  He  tried  to 
kill  his  wife  and  his  child  .  .  .  and  he  set  fire  to  the 
home.  He's  an  Italian." 

"Yes...  so  I  was  told." 

The  nurse  departed  and  he  drank  the  cup  of 
muddy  coffee  on  the  tray.  He  laid  the  cup  down 
and  sat  staring  at  the  square  cut  in  the  center 
of  the  thick  oak  door  leading  into  the  corridor. 
Presently  he  heard  the  swish  of  a  woman's  skirt 
passing  the  opening,  followed  by  the  pattering 
footsteps  of  childhood.  There  came  the  sound 
of  soft  weeping  .  .  .  the  swishing  skirt  passed  again, 
and  the  pattering  footsteps  died  away.  The  nurse 
returned. 

"The  Italian's  wife  and  child  have  just  been 
here,"  she  said.  "They  let  the  woman  look  for  the 
last  time  at  her  husband  through  the  hole  in  the 
door." 

Fred  put  his  head  between  his  hands.  "He  tried 
to  murder  her  and  yet  she  came  to  see  him,"  he 
muttered,  almost  inaudibly.  "I  dare  say  he  abused 
her  in  his  day,  too." 

The  woman  gave  him  a  sharp  glance.  "You're 
married,  aren't  you?" 


BROKEN   TO   THE  PLOW  157 

He  looked  up  suddenly,  reading  the  inference  in 
her  question.  "Yes  . . .  but  my  wife  won't  come. ..." 

The  nurse  left  the  room  and  he  put  his  face  in 
his  hands  again.  The  sun  was  traveling  swiftly. 
He  shifted  his  position  so  that  he  could  get  the  full 
benefit  of  its  warmth.  He  thought  that  he  had 
banished  the  memory  of  Helen  Starratt  forever, 
but  he  found  his  mind  re-creating  that  final  scene 
with  her  in  all  its  relentless  bitterness.  .  .  .  She  had 
come  that  day  to  salve  her  conscience  ...  to  pay 
her  tithe  to  form  and  respectability  .  .  .  perhaps 
moved  to  fleeting  pity.  He  had  seen  through  every 
word,  every  gesture,  every  glance.  Her  trans 
parency  was  loathsome.  Why  did  he  read  her  so 
perfectly  now?  Was  it  because  she  felt  herself  too 
secure  for  further  veilings,  or  had  his  eyes  been 
suddenly  opened? 

She  was  not  flaming  nor  reckless  nor  consumed 
utterly;  instead,  there  was  a  complacent  coolness 
about  her,  as  if  passion  had  drawn  every  warmth 
within  her  for  its  own  consummation.  She  had 
still  her  instincts  in  the  leash  of  calculation,  going 
through  the  motions  of  conventionality.  The  lifted 
eyebrows  and  curling  lip  which  she  had  directed  at 
Ginger's  departing  figure  were  not  inconsistent. 
Dissimulation  was  such  an  art  with  her  that  it  was 
unconscious. 

He  had  asked  her  only  one  question: 

"And  how  is  Mrs.  Kilmer?" 

Even  now  he  shuddered  at  the  completeness 
with  which  her  words  betrayed  her. 


1 58  BROKEN   TO   THE  PLOW 

"There  is  no  change  ...  we  are  simply  waiting." 

He  had  turned  away  from  this  crowning  dis 
closure.  Waiting?  No  wonder  she  could  veil  her 
desire  in  such  disarming  patience!  He  had  in 
tended  asking  her  plans.  Now  it  was  unnecessary. 
And  he  had  thought  at  once  of  that  last  night  when 
he  had  called  at  Kilmer's,  remembering  the  sprawl 
ing  magazine  on  the  floor,  the  bowl  of  wanton 
flowers  upon  the  mantelshelf,  the  debonairly  flung 
mandarin  skirt  clinging  to  the  piano — these  had 
been  the  first  marks  of  conquest. 

As  she  was  leaving  she  had  said,  "I  shall  see  you 
again,  of  course." 

In  spite  of  its  inconsistency  he  had  sensed  a 
certain  habitual  tenderness  in  her  voice,  as  if 
custom  were  demanding  its  due.  And,  for  a 
moment,  the  old  bond  between  them  touched 
him  with  its  false  warmth.  But  a  swift  revulsion 
swept  him. 

"Why  bother?"  he  had  thrown  back  at  her. 

"You  mean  you  don't  want  me  to  come?" 

"Yes,  just  that!" 

He  had  taken  her  breath  away,  perhaps  even 
wounded  her,  momentarily,  but  she  had  recovered 
herself  quickly.  Her  smile  had  been  full  of  the 
smug  satisfaction  of  one  who  has  washed  his  hands 
in  public  self -justification. 

She  had  left  soon  after  that  passage  at  arms, 

achieving  the  grace  to  dispense  with  the  empty 

formality  of  either  a  kiss  or  a  farewell  embrace. 

,  He  remembered  how  he  had  flung  up  the 


BROKEN   TO   THE  PLOW  159 

window  as  if  to  clear  the  room  of  her  poisonous 
presence.  .  .  . 

To-day,  sitting  upon  his  narrow  bed,  instinctively 
following  the  patch  of  yellow  sunlight  as  it  gilded 
the  gloom,  he  felt  that  the  maniac  next  door  had 
the  better  part.  Of  what  use  was  reason  when  it 
ceased  to  function  except  in  terms  of  withering 
unbelief  ? 

He  sat  motionless  for  hours,  waiting  patiently 
for  them  to  come  and  release  him  to  sharper  sor 
rows.  He  had  a  passive  eagerness  to  taste  bitter 
ness  to  the  lees.  .  .  .  When  he  heard  the  door  open 
finally  he  did  not  rise.  He  kept  his  face  buried. 
A  light  footstep  came  nearer  and  he  was  conscious 
of  the  pressure  of  icy  fingers  upon  his  hands.  He 
looked  up.  Ginger  stood  before  him. 

"I  brought  you  some  smokes,"  she  said,  simply, 
"but  they  wouldn't  let  me  bring  them  in." 

He  tried  to  speak,  but  suddenly  great  sobs  shook 
him. 

She  put  her  fingers  in  his  hair,  drawing  him  to 
his  feet,  and  presently  he  felt  her  own  tears  splashing 
his  cheek. 

He  was  smiling  when  they  finally  came  for  him. 
But  he  felt  weaker  than  ever,  and  as  they  walked 
out  into  the  glare  of  the  street  he  was  glad  to  lean 
upon  Ginger's  arm.  The  sheriff's  van  was  drawn 
up  to  the  curb.  Two  deputies  helped  him  in.  He 
turned  for  a  last  look  at  Ginger.  Her  pale  little  face 
was  twisted,  but  she  waved  a  gay  farewell.  In  a 
far  corner  of  the  lumbering  machine  Fred  could  see 


160  BROKEN   TO   THE  PLOW 

two  catlike  eyes  glimmering.  Slowly  his  gaze 
penetrated  the  gloom,  and  the  figure  of  a  battered 
man  shaped  itself,  his  two  hands  strapped  to  his 
sides.  The  deputies  got  in,  the  door  was  shut 
sharply,  and  the  van  shot  forward. 

In  less  than  fifteen  minutes  they  had  reached  the 
ferry. 

The  train  was  late,  and  it  was  long  after  nine 
o'clock  when  it  pulled  into  the  Fairview  station. 
The  day  had  been  hot,  and  the  breath  of  evening 
was  bringing  out  grateful  and  cooling  odors  from 
the  sunburnt  stubble  of  the  hillside  as  Fred  Starratt 
and  his  keeper  stepped  upon  the  station  platform. 
The  insane  Italian  followed  between  two  guards. 
An  automobile  swung  toward  them.  They  got  in 
and  rode  through  the  thickening  gloom  for  about 
three  miles.  .  .  .  Presently  one  of  the  deputies 
leaned  toward  Fred,  pointing  a  finger  in  the  direc 
tion  of  a  cluster  of  lights,  as  he  said: 

"There's  your  future  home,  old  man.  Keep  a 
stiff  upper  lip.  You'll  need  all  your  grit." 


CHAPTER  XII 

STARRATT  rested  surprisingly  well  that 
first  night.  But  two  weeks  in  the  detention 
hospital  had  taken  the  sting  out  of  institutional 
preliminaries.  The  officials  at  Fairview  put  him 
through  precisely  the  same  paces,  except  upon  a 
somewhat  larger  scale.  There  was  the  selfsame 
questioning,  the  same  yielding  up  of  personal 
effects,  the  same  inevitable  bath.  And  almost  the 
same  solitary  room,  except  that  this  one  peered 
out  upon  the  free  world  through  a  heavily  barred 
window  instead  of  through  a  skylight,  and  boasted 
a  kitchen  chair.  He  was  to  be  alone  then !  .  .  .  He 
thanked  God  for  this  solitude  and  slept. 

He  awoke  at  six  o'clock  to  the  clipped  shriek  of  a 
whistle.  Shortly  after,  a  key  turned  in  his  door. 
There  followed  the  sound  of  scores  of  bare  feet 
pattering  up  and  down  the  hall.  Was  it  imagina 
tion  or  did  these  muffled  footfalls  have  an  inhuman 
softness?  .  .  .  Suddenly  his  door  flew  open.  He 
shrank  beneath  the  bedclothes,  peering  out  with 
one  unscreened  eye. 

A  knot  of  gesticulating  and  innocent  madmen 
were  gazing  at  him  with  all  the  simplicity  of  chil 
dren.  After  a  few  moments,  their  curiosity  satis 
fied,  they  pattered  on  their  ghostly  way  again. 


1 62  BROKEN   TO   THE  PLOW 

This,  he  afterward  learned,  was  the  daily  morning 
inspection  of  newcomers. 

Presently  the  whistle  blew  again  and  a  bell 
sounded  through  the  corridors.  A  rush  of  answer 
ing  feet  swept  past;  a  great  silence  fell. 

A  half  hour  later  a  monstrous  man  with  glittering 
eyes  and  clawlike  fingers  came  in,  carrying  breakfast 
— a  large  dishpan  filled  with  a  slimy  mush,  two 
slices  of  dry  bread,  and  a  mound  of  greasy  hash. 
Fred  turned  away  with  a  movement  of  supreme  dis 
gust.  The  gigantic  attendant  laughed. 

There  came  a  call  of,  "All  outside!"  echoing 
through  the  halls;  a  rush  of  feet  again,  a  hushed 
succeeding  silence.  The  half -mad  ogre  went  to  the 
window  and  slyly  beckoned  Fred  to  follow.  He 
crawled  out  of  bed  and  took  his  place  before  the 
iron  bars.  The  man  pointed  a  skinny  finger ;  Fred's 
gaze  followed.  He  found  himself  looking  down 
upon  a  stone-paved  yard  filled  with  loathsome  hu 
man  wreckage — gibbering  cripples,  drooling  mon 
sters,  vacant-eyed  corpses  with  only  the  motions  of 
life.  Some  had  their  hands  strapped  to  their  sides, 
others  were  almost  naked.  They  sang,  shouted,  and 
laughed,  prayed  or  were  silent,  according  to  their 
mental  infirmities.  It  was  an  inferno  all  the  more 
horrible  because  of  its  reality,  a  relentless  night 
mare  from  which  there  was  no  awakening. 

Fred  heard  the  man  at  his  side  chuckling  fero 
ciously. 

His  tormentor  was  laughing  with  insane  cruelty. 
"The  bull  pen!  Ha,  ha,  ha!" 


BROKEN   TO   THE  PLOW  163 

Fred  made  his  way  back  to  his  bed.  Midway  he 
stopped. 

"Does  everybody  ..."  he  began  to  stammer — 
"does  everybody  ...  or  only  those  who  ..." 

He  broke  off  in  despair.  What  could  this  mad 
giant  tell  him?  But  almost  before  the  thought  had 
escaped  him  his  companion  read  his  thought  with 
uncanny  precision. 

"You  think  I  don't  know ! "  the  man  said,  tapping 
his  head  significantly.  "But  everybody  .  .  .  they 
all  ask  me  the  same  question.  Yes  .  .  .  you'll 
take  your  turn,  my  friend.  Don't  be  afraid. 
They'll  give  you  the  air  in  the  bull  pen,  all  right ! 
Ha,  ha,  ha!"  And  with  that  he  picked  up  the  dish- 
pan  of  untasted  breakfast  and  hurried  from  the 
room. 

Fred  Starratt  sank  down  upon  the  bed.  His 
temples  were  throbbing  and  his  body  wet  with  an  icy 
sweat. 

He  was  roused  by  a  vigorous  but  not  ungentle 
tap  upon  the  shoulder.  He  stumbled  to  his  feet, 
shaking  himself  into  a  semblance  of  courage.  But 
instead  of  the  malevolent  giant  of  the  breakfast 
hour,  a  genial  man  of  imposing  bulk  stood  before 
him.  "My  name  is  Harrison,"  his  visitor  began, 
kindly;  "I'm  an  assistant  to  the  superintendent.  .  .  . 
Perhaps  you'd  like  to  tell  me  something  about 
yourself?" 

Fred  drew  back  a  trifle.     "Must  I?  ..." 
Harrison  smiled  as  he  seated  himself  in  the  chair. 


1 64  BROKEN   TO   THE  PLOW 

"No  . .  .  but  they  usually  do  ...  after  the  first  night. 
...  It  helps,  sometimes,  to  talk." 

"I  am  afraid  there's  nothing  to  tell.  ...  I'm  here, 
and  I'll  make  the  best  of  it.  .  .  ." 

Fred  wiped  the  clammy  sweat  from  his  forehead 
with  a  gesture  of  despair. 

Harrison  leaned  forward.  '  *  Don't  you  feel  well  ? ' ' 
he  inquired. 

"It's  nothing.  ...  I  looked  out  into  the  yard  this 
morning.  ...  I  dare  say  one  gets  used  to  it — but 
for  the  moment.  .  .  .  You  have  other  yards,  I  sup 
pose.  .  .  .  That  is,  I  sha'n't  have  to  take  the  air 
there  .  .  .  shall  I ...  in  the  bull  pen? " 

"It's  usual  .  .  .  for  the  first  day  or  two.  But 
perhaps  in  your  case — •"  Harrison  broke  off. 
"However,  I  can't  promise  anything.  ...  If  you'll 
come  to  the  office  I'll  give  you  back  your  clothes." 

They  went  into  the  office  together  and  Fred 
received  his  clothing  duly  marked  with  his  name 
and  ward.  But  his  shoes  were  withheld  and  in 
their  place  he  was  given  a  pair  of  mismated  slippers 
which  proved  too  large.  Harrison  handed  him 
two  rag  strips  with  which  he  tied  them  on.  Look 
ing  down  at  the  shapeless,  flapping  footgear,  Fred 
Starratt  felt  his  humiliation  to  be  complete.  He 
walked  slowly  back  to  his  room. 

The  noise  from  the  bull  pen  was  deafening.  He 
went  to  the  window  and  steeled  himself  against  the 
sight  below.  ...  At  first  he  shuddered,  but  gradually 
his  hands  became  clenched,  in  answer  to  a  rising 
determination.  Why  should  he  flinch  from  any- 


BROKEN   TO   THE  PLOW  165 

thing  God  himself  could  look  upon? ...  He  was  still 
standing  by  the  window  when  the  gong  for  the  mid 
day  meal  sounded.  The  bull  pen  had  long  since 
been  deserted  and,  with  the  foreground  swept  clean 
of  its  human  excrescence,  his  purposeless  gaze  had 
wandered  instinctively  toward  the  promise  of  the 
forest-green  hills  in  the  distance. 

He  heard  the  familiar  rush  of  feet  toward  the 
dining  room  and  he  was  vaguely  conscious  that 
some  one  had  halted  before  his  door.  He  turned 
about.  A  young  man,  not  over  twenty-five,  with  a 
delicately  chiseled  face,  was  stepping  into  the  room. 
As  he  drew  closer  Fred  received  the  wistful  impres 
sion  of  changing-blue  eyes  and  a  skin  clear  to  the 
point  of  transparency.  Fred  met  his  visitor  half 
way. 

<fYou  came  last  night,  didn't  you?"  the  youth 
began,  offering  a  shy  hand.  "I  saw  you  this  morn 
ing.  I  was  in  the  crowd  that  looked  you  over  just 
before  breakfast.  .  .  .  What  are  you  here  for?" 

Fred  lifted  his  hand  and  let  it  fall  again.  "I 
made  a  mess  of  things.  .  .  .  And  you? " 

" Booze,"  the  other  replied,  laconically.  "I've 
been  in  three  times.  .  .  .  Let's  go  down  to  lunch." 

He  slipped  a  friendly  arm  into  Fred's  and  to 
gether  they  walked  with  the  rushing  throng  into  the 
dining  room. 

It  was  a  small  room,  everything  considered,  with 
tables  built  around  the  four  walls  and  one  large 
table  in  the  center  that  seated  about  twenty-five 
people.  Starratt  and  his  new-found  friend  dls- 


1 66  BROKEN   TO   THE  PLOW 

covered  two  vacant  seats  upon  the  rude  bench  in 
front  of  the  center  table  and  sat  down.  They  were 
each  given  a  plate  upon  which  was  a  potato  and  a 
small  piece  of  cold  beef  and  the  inevitable  hunk  of 
dry  bread.  A  large  pitcher  of  tea  stood  within 
reach.  There  was  neither  milk  nor  sugar  nor  butter 
in  evidence.  A  tablespoon  and  a  tin  cup  were  next 
handed  them.  Fred  felt  a  sudden  nausea.  He 
closed  his  eyes  for  a  moment,  and  when  he  looked 
up  his  plate  had  been  swept  clean  of  food. 

11  You've  got  to  watch  sharp,"  the  youth  was 
saying.  "They  steal  everything  in  sight  if  you  let 
them.  .  .  .  Here,  have  some  of  mine." 

Fred  made  a  gesture  of  refusal.  "It  doesn't 
matter,"  he  explained.  "I'm  not  hungry." 

"You'd  better  eat  something.  .  .  .  Have  some  hot 
tea!" 

It  was  a  black,  hair-raising  brew,  but  Fred 
managed  to  force  down  a  draught  of  it.  About  him 
on  all  sides  men  were  tearing  their  meat  with  claw- 
like  hands,  digging  their  fangs  into  it  in  wolfish 
ferocity.  ...  A  dishpan  of  rice  was  circulated. 
Fred  took  a  few  spoonfuls.  Within  fifteen  minutes 
the  meal  was  over  and  the  dishpan,  emptied  of  its 
rice,  was  passed  again.  Fred  saw  his  companions 
flinging  their  spoons  into  it.  He  did  likewise. 

The  youth  arose.  ' '  Let's  get  out  of  this  and  have 
a  smoke.  ...  I've  got  the  makings." 

A  great  surge  of  relief  swept  over  Fred.  A  smoke ! 
Somehow,  he  had  forgotten  that  such  a  solace 
existed  in  this  new  world  of  terror  and  pain. 


BROKEN   TO   THE  PLOW  167 

It  appeared  that  the  only  place  indoors  where 
smoking  was  permitted  was  the  lavatory,  but  when 
they  reached  the  corridor  they  found  a  line  forming 
ready  to  march  out  to  take  the  air.  They  decided 
to  wait  and  have  their  smoke  in  the  open.  Fred 
and  his  companion  exchanged  names.  The  youth 
was  Felix  Monet. 

'Tm  not  sure  whether  you  go  out  with  us," 
Monet  admitted,  as  they  swung  into  place.  "This 
crowd  is  bound  for  the  front  parade  ground.  It's 
not  usual  for  newcomers  to  have  that  privilege." 

Fred  made  no  reply.  The  line  of  men  shuffled 
forward. 

"We  go  downstairs  first  for  our  shoes,"  the  youth 
finished. 

Presently  they  found  themselves  upon  the  ground 
floor,  in  a  small  room  where  an  attendant  dis 
tributed  shoes  and  hats.  It  appeared  that  Fred's 
shoes  were  there,  duly  labeled.  The  man  in  charge 
made  no  objection  to  yielding  them  up. 

"You  must  have  a  pull,"  Monet  remarked,  as 
Fred  sat  down  upon  a  stool  to  draw  on  his  shoes. 

Fred  shook  his  head  in  silence.  Evidently  the 
assistant  superintendent  had  said  a  word  for  him. 
...  He  was  not  to  be  put  to  the  torture  of  the  bull 
pen,  then! 

Outside,  the  air  was  warm  and  the  sunlight 
dazzling.  Fred  felt  a  surge  of  red-blooded  life 
sweep  him  as  his  quivering  nostrils  drank  in  the 
pungent  odors  from  the  midsummer  foliage. 
Waves  of  heat  floated  wraithlike  from  the  yellow 


1 68  BROKEN   TO   THE  PLOW 

stubble,  bathing  the  distant  hills  in  an  arid-blue 
haze.  At  convenient  intervals  clumps  of  dark- 
green  trees  threw  contrasting  patches  of  shade  upon 
the  tawny,  sun-bleached  sod.  But  Fred  ignored 
their  cool  invitation.  He  always  had  hated  hot 
weather  with  all  his  coast-bred  soul,  but  to-day  a 
hunger  for  warmth  possessed  him  completely. 

Monet  and  he  took  a  broad  path  which  circled 
for  about  a  quarter  of  a  mile  about  the  grounds. 
As  they  progressed,  several  joined  them.  Fred 
was  introduced  to  each  in  turn,  but  he  responded 
listlessly.  Almost  at  once  the  newcomers  hurled 
questions  at  him.  .  .  .  Why  was  he  there?  .  .  .  How 
long  was  he  in  for?  ...  What  did  he  think  were  the 
chances  of  escape?  Inevitably,  every  conversation 
turned  upon  this  last  absorbing  topic.  These  men 
seemed  eager  for  confidences,  they  wanted  to  share 
their  experiences,  their  grievances,  their  hopes. 
But  Fred  Starratt  recoiled.  He  had  not  yet  reached 
the  stage  when  a  thin  trickle  of  words  fell  gratefully 
upon  his  ears.  He  had  no  desire  to  either  hear 
or  speak.  All  he  craved  was  the  healing  silence 
of  open  spaces.  But  he  was  soon  to  learn  that 
this  new  life  held  no  such  soul-cleansing  solace. 
Gradually  he  fell  a  bit  apart  from  his  chattering 
comrades. 

They  passed  an  ill-kept  croquet  ground  and  some 
patches  of  garden  where  those  who  were  so  dis 
posed  could  raise  vegetables  or  flowers.  There  was 
something  pathetic  about  the  figures  bending  with 
childlike  faith  over  their  labor  of  love — attempting 


BROKEN  TO   THE  PLOW  169 

to  make  nature  smile  upon  them.  Without  the 
vision  of  the  bull  pen  Fred  Starratt  would  have 
found  much  that  afternoon  that  was  revolting. 
But  one  glimpse  into  the  horrible  inferno  of  the 
morning  had  made  him  less  sensitive  to  milder 
impressions. 

After  a  while  Monet  detached  himself  from  the 
rest  of  the  walking  throng  and  fell  back  with 
Starratt.  He  seemed  to  have  an  instinctive  gift 
for  sensing  moods,  and  Fred  was  grateful  for  his 
silence. 

They  were  passing  by  a  two-story  concrete  build 
ing  in  the  Colonial  style  when  Monet  touched 
Fred's  arm. 

1  'That's  the  famous  Ward  Six,"  Monet  explained, 
softly.  "You'll  get  there  finally  if  you  work  it 
right.  .  .  .  It's  not  heaven  .  .  .  but  alongside  the 
other  wards  it  comes  pretty  near  being." 

They  turned  about  shortly  after  this  and  began 
to  retrace  their  steps.  Presently  a  man  came  in 
sight,  pulling  a  cardboard  box  mounted  upon  four 
spools. 

"An  inventor,"  Monet  said,  as  Fred  threw  out 
a  questioning  glance.  "He  has  an  idea  that  he's 
perfected  a  wonderful  automobile.  .  .  .  You'll 
get  used  to  them  after  a  while." 

A  little  farther  on  they  met  a  haughty-looking 
Japanese  coming  toward  them.  Monet  plucked 
at  Fred's  sleeve.  "Better  step  to  one  side,"  he 
cautioned;  "that  fellow  thinks  he  is  the  Emperor 
of  Japan!" 


1 70  BROKEN   TO   THE  PLOW 

Fred  did  as  he  was  bidden  and  the  Japanese 
swept  past  gloomily. 

"Well,  at  least  he's  happy,  in  his  own  way!" 
Monet  commented,  with  a  tinge  of  irony. 

Soon  after  that  another  man  passed,  weeping 
bitterly. 

"They  call  him  the  Weeping  Willow,"  Monet 
explained.  "He  weeps  because  he  can  find  no  one 
who  will  kill  him." 

Fred  shuddered. 

By  this  time  they  had  reached  their  starting 
point.  Fred  felt  suddenly  tired.  "Let's  rest  a 
bit  under  the  trees,"  he  proposed. 

Monet  assented,  and  the  two  threw  themselves 
into  the  first  shade.  Fred  closed  his  eyes.  He  had 
a  sense  that  he  was  dreaming — that  all  the  scenes 
that  he  had  witnessed  these  many  days  were  unreal. 
Presently  he  would  wake  up  to  the  old  familiar  ring 
of  his  alarm  clock,  and  gradually  all  the  outlines 
of  his  bedroom  would  shape  themselves  to  his 
recovered  senses.  .  .  .  There  would  stand  Helen 
by  her  dressing  table,  stooping  down  to  the  mirror's 
level  as  she  popped  her  thick  braids  under  her  pink 
boudoir  cap.  ...  In  a  few  minutes  the  first  whiffs 
of  coffee  would  come  floating  in  from  the  kitchen 
ette.  Then  he  would  crawl  slowly  out  from  the 
warm  bedclothes  and  stretch  himself  comfortably 
and  give  a  sudden  dash  for  the  bathroom  and  his 
cold  plunge.  There  would  follow  breakfast  and 
the  walk  over  the  hill  down  to  the  office  of  Ford, 
Wetherbee  &  Co.  in  a  mist-golden  morning.  And 


BROKEN  TO  THE  PLOW  171 

he  would  hear  again  the  exchange  of  greetings,  and 
find  himself  replying  to  the  inevitable  question: 

"Well,  what's  new?" 

With  the  equally  inevitable  answer: 

' '  Not  a  thing  in  the  world ! '  * 

Some  one  was  shaking  him.  He  gave  a  quick 
gasp  that  ended  in  a  groan  as  he  opened  his  eyes. 
Monet  was  bending  over  him. 

''You've  been  asleep,"  his  companion  said. 
4 'Come,  it's  time  to  go  in.  ...  The  bell  for  supper 
has  rung.  .  .  .  And  you  were  dreaming,  too  ...  I 
knew  that  because  you  smiled!" 

Fred  Starratt  grasped  Monet's  hand  fervently. 

'  *  It  was  good  of  you  to  keep  watch, ' '  he  murmured. 

Monet  answered  with  a  warm  pressure.  And  at 
that  moment  something  deep  and  indefinable  passed 
between  them  ...  a  silent  covenant  too  precious  for 
words. 

Fred  Starratt  rose  to  his  feet. 

1 '  Let  us  go  in ! "  he  said. 

At  supper  Fred  Starratt  nibbled  at  some  dry 
bread  and  drank  another  strong  draught  of  tea.  But 
he  had  to  force  himself  to  even  this  scant  com 
promise  with  expediency.  There  followed  smoking 
in  the  lavatory  and  at  seven  o'clock  the  call  to  turn 
in.  Fred  scurried  confidently  to  his  cell-like  room 
...  he  was  quite  ready  for  solitude. 

An  attendant  was  moving  about.  "You  sleep  in 
the  first  dormitory  to-night,"  he  explained  to  Fred. 
"It's  at  the  end  of  the  hall." 


1 72  BROKEN  TO   THE  PLOW 

Fred  turned  away  in  fresh  despair. 

Before  the  door  of  the  first  dormitory  a  number  of 
men  were  undressing.  Monet  was  in  the  group 
and  a  newspaper  man  named  Clancy  that  Fred  had 
met  that  afternoon.  Fred  stood  a  moment  in 
indecision. 

"You'll  have  to  strip  out  here,"  Monet  said,  in 
a  matter-of-fact  tone.  "Just  leave  your  clothes 
in  a  pile  close  against  the  wall." 

Fred  obeyed.  The  rest  of  the  company  regarded 
him  with  sinister  curiosity.  Except  for  Monet 
and  Clancy  all  seemed  obviously  insane.  One  by 
one  they  filed  into  the  room.  Fred  followed. 
Twelve  spotlessly  clean  cots  gleamed  in  the 
twilight. 

The  twelve  men  crawled  into  bed;  the  door  was 
shut  with  a  bang.  Fred  heard  a  key  turn.  .  .  . 
They  were  locked  in ! 

The  ghostly  day  faded  and  night  settled  in. 
Fitful  snorings  and  groans  and  incoherent  mutter- 
ings  broke  the  stillness.  At  intervals  a  man  near 
the  door  would  jump  to  his  feet,  proclaiming  the 
end  of  the  world.  Sometimes  his  paroxysm  was 
brief,  but  again  he  would  keep  up  his  leaping  and 
solemn  chanting  until  he  fell  to  the  floor  in  sheer 
exhaustion.  .  .  .  Gradually  even  he  became  quiet, 
and  nothing  was  audible  except  heavy  breathing 
and  the  sound  of  the  watchman  in  the  corridor  as 
he  passed  by  regularly,  flashing  his  light  into  the 
room  through  the  slits  in  the  door. 

Fred  Starratt  did  not  close  his  eyes. 


CHAPTER  XIII 

'"THE  first  week  passed  in  an  inferno  of  idleness. 
*  Fred  Starratt  grew  to  envy  even  the  wretches 
who  were  permitted  to  carry  swill  to  the  pigs. 
There  once  had  been  a  time  in  his  life  when  ambition 
had  pricked  him  with  a  desire  for  affluent  ease. 
...  He  had  been  grounded  in  the  religious  convic 
tion  that  work  had  been  wished  upon  a  defenseless 
humanity  as  a  curse.  He  still  remembered  his 
Sabbath-school  stories,  particularly  the  scornful 
text  with  which  the  Lord  had  banished  those  two 
erring  souls  from  Eden.  Henceforth  they  were  to 
work!  To  earn  their  bread  by  the  sweat  of  their 
brows!  He  had  a  feeling  now  that  either  God  had 
been  tricked  into  granting  a  boon  or  else  the  scowl 
which  had  accompanied  the  tirade  had  been  the 
scowl  that  a  genial  Father  threw  at  his  children 
merely  for  the  sake  of  seeming  impressive.  At 
heart  the  good  Lord  must  have  had  only  admira 
tion  for  these  two  souls  who  refused  to  be  beguiled 
by  all  the  slothful  ease  of  Eden,  preferring  to  take 
their  chances  in  a  world  of  their  own  making.  .  .  . 
And  he  began  to  question,  too,  either  the  beauty 
or  contentment  of  the  heaven  which  offered  the 
vacuous  delights  of  idleness.  It  seemed,  perhaps, 
that  the  theologians  had  mixed  their  revelations, 


i74  BROKEN   TO   THE  PLOW 

and  that  the  paradise  they  offered  so  glibly  was 
really  a  sinister  hell  in  disguise. 

After  the  first  day  the  sights  which  had  sent 
shudders  through  him  gradually  began  to  assume 
the  inevitability  of  custom.  Even  the  vision  of 
the  Weeping  Willow,  sorrowing  at  death  with 
held,  failed  to  shake  him.  The  third  night  he  slept 
undisturbed  in  the  lap  of  frenzy  and  madness. 
There  was  something  at  once  pathetic  and  sublime 
in  his  adaptability  to  the  broken  suits  of  fortune. 
He  was  learning  what  every  man  learns  sooner  or 
later — to  play  the  hand  that  is  dealt,  even  in  the 
face  of  a  losing  game. 

Deep  within  him  he  found  two  opposing  currents 
struggling  for  mastery — one  an  overwhelming  tide 
of  disillusionment,  the  other  a  faith  in  things  hith 
erto  withheld.  Against  the  uncloaked  figures  of 
Helen  Starratt  and  Hilmer  loomed  Ginger  and  Mo 
net.  Did  life  always  yield  compensations,  if  one 
had  the  wit  to  discern  them?  In  the  still  watches 
of  the  night,  when  some  fleeting  sound  had  waked 
him,  he  used  to  think  of  Ginger  as  he  had  thought 
when  a  child  of  some  intangible  and  remote  vision 
that  he  could  sense,  but  not  define.  Would  he  ever 
see  her  again?  Suddenly,  one  night,  he  realized 
that  he  did  not  even  know  her  name.  .  .  .  And 
Monet,  who  slept  so  quietly  upon  the  cot  next  to 
him — what  would  he  have  done  without  his  com 
panionship  ?  He  used  to  raise  himself  on  his  elbow 
at  times  and  look  in  the  ghostly  light  of  morning 
at  Monet's  face,  white  and  immobile,  the  thin  and 


BROKEN   TO   THE  PLOW  175 

shapely  lips  parted  ever  so  slightly,  and  marvel  at 
the  bland  and  childlike  faith  that  was  the  basis  of 
this  almost  breathless  and  inaudible  sleep.  Fred 
had  made  friendships  in  his  life,  warm,  hand- 
clasping,  shoulder-thumping  friendships,  but  they 
had  been  of  gradual  unfolding.  Never  before  had 
anyone  walked  full-grown  into  his  affections. 

On  the  third  afternoon,  sitting  in  the  thick  shade 
of  a  gracious  tree,  Monet  had  told  Fred  something 
of  his  story.  He  was  of  mixed  breed — French  and 
Italian,  with  a  bit  of  Irish  that  had  made  him  blue- 
eyed,  and  traces  of  English  and  some  Dutch.  A 
brood  of  races  that  were  forever  at  war  within  him. 
And  he  had  been  a  musician  in  the  bargain,  and 
this  in  the  face  of  an  implacable  father  who  dealt 
in  hides  and  tallow.  There  had  been  all  the  weak 
ness  and  flaming  and  naiveti  of  a  potential  artist 
ground  under  the  heel  of  a  relentless  sire.  His 
mother  was  long  since-  dead.  The  father  had 
attempted  to  force  the  stream  of  desire  from  music 
to  business.  He  had  succeeded,  after  a  fashion, 
but  the  youth  had  learned  to  escape  from  the  dull 
pain  of  his  slavery  into  a  rosy  and  wine-red  Eden. 
.  .  .  Three  times  he  had  been  sent  to  Fairview  "to 
kick  the  nonsense  out  of  him!"  to  use  his  father's 
words.  He  was  not  embittered  nor  overwhelmed, 
but  he  was  passive,  stubbornly  passive,  as  if  he  had 
all  a  lifetime  to  cross  words  with  Monet,  senior. 
It  was  inevitable  that  he  would  win  in  the  end. 
He  was  a  child  ...  he  always  would  be  one  .  .  .  and 
childhood  might  be  cowed,  but  it  was  never  really 


i76  BROKEN   TO   THE  PLOW 

conquered.  He  was  gentle,  too,  like  a  child,  and 
sensitive.  Yet  the  horrors  which  surrounded  him 
seemed  to  leave  him  untroubled.  It  could  not  be 
that  he  was  insensible  to  ugliness,  but  he  rose  above 
it  on  the  wings  of  some  inner  beauty.  .  .  .  Once  Fred 
Starratt  would  have  felt  some  of  the  father's  scorn 
for  Felix  Monet  —  the  patronizing  scorn  most 
men  bring  to  an  estimate  of  the  incomprehensible. 
What  could  one  expect  of  a  fiddler?  Yes,  he 
would  have  felt  something  worse  than  scorn — he 
would  have  been  moved  to  tolerance. 

The  only  other  man  in  Ward  1  who  was  sane 
was  Clancy,  the  newspaper  reporter.  But  in  the 
afternoons  the  knot  of  rational  inmates  from  the 
famous  Ward  6  herded  together  and  exchanged 
griefs.  Fred  Starratt  sat  and  listened,  but  he  felt 
apart.  Somehow,  most  of  the  stories  did  not  ring 
quite  true.  He  never  had  realized  before  how 
eager  human  beings  were  to  deny  all  blame.  To 
hear  them  one  would  fancy  that  the  busy  world 
had  paused  merely  to  single  them  out  as  targets 
for  misfortune.  And  the  more  he  listened  to  their 
doleful  whines  the  more  he  turned  the  searching 
light  of  inquiry  upon  his  own  case.  In  the  end, 
there  was  something  beyond  reserve  and  arrogance 
in  the  reply  he  would  make  to  their  direct  inquiries : 
"What  brought  me  here?  .  .  .  Myself!" 
But  his  attitude  singled  him  out  for  distrust. 
He  was  incomprehensible  to  these  burden  shifters, 
these  men  who  had  been  trained  to  cast  their  load 
upon  the  nearest  object  and,  failing  everything  else, 


BROKEN   TO   THE  PLOW  177 

upon  the  Lord.  .  .  .  They  were  all  either  drug  users 
or  victims  of  drink.  And,  to  a  man,  they  were 
furiously  in  favor  of  prohibition  with  all  the 
strength  of  their  weak,  dog-in-the-manger  souls. 
Like  every  human  being,  they  hated  what  they 
abused.  They  wanted  to  play  the  game  of  life 
with  failure  eliminated,  and  the  god  that  they 
fashioned  was  a  venerable  old  man  who  had  the 
skill  to  worst  them,  but  who  genially  let  them  walk 
away  with  victory. 

As  Fred  Starratt  listened  day  after  day  to 
their  chatter  he  withdrew  more  and  more  from  any 
mental  contact  with  them.  And  yet  there  were 
times  when  he  felt  a  longing  to  pour  out  his  grief 
into  the  ears  of  understanding.  ...  He  knew  that 
Monet  was  waiting  for  his  story,  but  pride  still  held 
him  in  its  grip.  .  .  .  After  all,  there  was  a  ridiculous 
side  to  his  plight.  When  a  man  permitted  himself 
to  be  blindfolded  he  could  not  quarrel  at  being 
pushed  and  shoved  and  buffeted.  .  .  .  How  absurd 
he  must  have  seemed  to  Watson  on  that  day  when 
he  had  announced  so  dramatically : 

"I  said  I'd  stand  by  Mrs.  Starratt's  decision. 
And  I'm  a  man  of  my  word!" 

How  much  a  man  would  endure  simply  for  the 
sake  of  making  a  fine  flourish!  He  had  thought 
himself  heroic  at  that  moment,  poor,  empty  fool 
that  he  was,  when  he  really  had  been  the  victim  of 
cowardice.  A  brave  man  would  have  cried : 

"I  said  I'd  stand  by  Mrs.  Starratt's  decision, 
but  I'm  not  quite  an  idiot!" 


178  BROKEN   TO   THE  PLOW 

One  other  topic  flamed  these  poor  souls,  seeking 
to  kindle  a  warmth  of  sympathy  for  their  failures. 
When  the  lamentations  ceased,  they  talked  of 
flight.  Fred  Starratt  sat  mentally  apart  and 
listened.  Everybody  had  a  plan.  They  discussed 
prospects,  previous  attempts,  chances  for  failure. 
Fred  learned,  among  other  things,  that  the  search 
for  escaped  rationals  did  not  extend  much  beyond 
the  environs  of  Fairview.  If  a  man  from  Ward  6 
made  a  good  get-away  he  held  his  freedom,  unless 
his  kinsfolk  constituted  themselves  a  pack  of 
moral  bloodhounds.  He  realized  now  that  there 
was  nothing  as  relentless  as  family  pride.  It  was 
not  so  much  the  alcoholic  excess  that  was  resented, 
but  the  fact  that  it  led  to  unkept  linen  and  dirty 
finger  nails  and,  by  the  same  token,  to  neighborhood 
scorn.  Concern  for  a  man's  soul  did  not  send  him 
to  Fairview.  .  .  .  But  was  anybody  really  concerned 
for  a  man's  soul?  .  .  .  Why  should  they  be? ...  He 
ended  by  quarreling  only  with  the  pretense. 

Escape!  Escape!  To  get  back  to  the  world 
that  they  were  forever  reviling!  Like  men  in  the 
grip  of  some  wanton  mistress  who  could  bring  them 
neither  happiness  nor  heroics,  either  in  her  company 
or  away  from  her.  Take  Fordham,  for  instance,  a 
lean,  purple-faced  clerk,  who  had  been  sent  up  for 
the  third  time  by  his  wife  after  two  sensational 
escapes.  He  hadn't  disturbed  her,  looked  her  up, 
gone  near  her,  in  fact.  But  he  had  laid  up  along 
side  an  amber-filled  bottle  in  a  moldy  wine  shop 
somewhere  near  the  Barbary  coast.  Yes,  he  had 


BROKEN   TO   THE  PLOW  179 

achieved  it  even  in  the  face  of  prohibition.  And 
she  had  got  wind  of  it.  Folks  had  seen  him,  red- 
eyed  and  greasy-coated  and  bilious-hued,  emerging 
from  his  haunt  in  some  harsh  noon  that  set  him 
blinking,  like  a  startled  owl.  Well,  she  couldn't 
quite  have  that,  you  know!  She  couldn't  have 
her  husband  making  a  spectacle  of  himself,  sinking 
lower  and  lower  in  the  hell  of  his  own  choosing. 
No!  Far  better  to  pick  out  a  hell  for  him  ...  a  hell 
removed  discreetly  from  the  gaze  of  the  scornful. 
.  .  .  And  there  was  Wainright,  who,  like  Monet, 
had  a  father.  He  had  married  a  Runway  Girl  of 
the  Bearcat  Follies  .  .  .  the  sort  that  patters  down 
from  the  stage  to  imprint  carmine  kisses  and 
embarrassment  upon  the  shining  pate  of  the  first 
old  rounder  that  has  an  aisle  seat.  Well,  father 
could  not  have  that,  either.  He  was  impatient 
with  the  whole  performance.  Indeed,  a  less 
impatient  man  would  have  waited  and  watched 
Wainright,  junior,  wind  himself  in  the  net  which 
his  own  hands  had  set.  Instead,  he  went  to  the 
trouble  of  digging  a  pit  for  his  son  which  hastened 
the  inevitable,  but  did  not  cure  the  folly.  .  .  .Wain- 
right  had  escaped,  too,  quite  casually,  one  fine 
spring  day  when  he  had  been  sent  out  to  the  barn 
to  help  milk  the  cows.  The  Runway  Girl,  in  need 
of  publicity,  had  telegraphed  the  details  to  her 
press  agent,  following  receipt  of  her  husband's 
letter  telling  of  his  exploit.  A  Runway  Girl  whose 
husband-lover  broke  jail,  so  to  speak,  for  her,  had 
professional  assets  that  could  not  be  gainsaid. 


i8o  BROKEN   TO   THE  PLOW 

And  so  the  story  was  flashed  on  the  front  page  of 
every  newspaper  in  the  country,  with  the  result 
that  father  dug  another  pit. 

And  so  tale  succeeded  tale.  Fred  grew  to  accept 
most  of  them  with  large  dashes  of  salt.  Not  that 
he  doubted  the  broader  strokes  with  which  the 
effects  were  achieved,  but  he  mistrusted  that  many 
of  the  finer  shadings  had  been  discreetly  painted 
out.  He  was  learning  that  there  was  nothing  so 
essentially  untruthful  as  a  studied  veracity.  .  .  . 
Had  not  he  tricked  himself  with  just  such  care 
fully  heightened  details?  What  he  had  mistaken 
for  a  background  of  solid  truth  had  proved  nothing 
but  pasteboard  scenery  flooded  with  a  semblance 
of  reality  achieved  by  skillful  manipulation  of  spot 
lights.  He  had  been  satisfied  with  the  illusion 
because  he  had  wished  for  nothing  better.  And 
at  this  moment  he  was  more  desolate  than  any  in 
this  sad  company,  because  he  seemed  the  only  one 
who  had  lost  the  art  of  escaping  into  a  world  of  lies. 
He  had  no  more  spotlights  to  manipulate.  He  sat 
in  a  gloomy  playhouse  and  he  heard  only  confused 
voices  coming  from  the  stage.  He  was  not  even 
sorry  for  himself.  Whether  he  was  sorry  for  others 
he  could  not  yet  determine. 

One  afternoon  at  the  close  of  the  first  week,  as 
he  was  walking  back  to  Ward  1  with  Monet,  follow 
ing  one  of  these  inevitable  experience  meetings,  he 
turned  to  the  youth  and  said : 

"You  have  been  here  three  times  now.  Have 
you  never  thought  of  escape?" 


BROKEN   TO   THE  PLOW  181 

Monet  shrugged.  "Yes  ...  in  a  way.  But  I'm 
no  great  hand  at  doing  things  alone." 

They  walked  on  in  silence.     Finally  Fred  spoke. 

" Suppose  you  and  I  try  it  sometime? ...  It  will 
give  us  something  to  think  about.  .  .  .  But  we'll  go 
slow.  It  will  just  be  a  game,  you  understand." 

Monet's  eyes  lit  up  and  his  breath  came  quickly 
between  his  parted  lips.  ' '  You're  splendid  to  me ! ' ' 
he  cried.  "But  the  others — you  seem  to  hate 
them.  Why?" 

Fred  kicked  a  fallen  branch  out  of  his  path. 
"They  whine  too  much!"  he  muttered. 

The  boy  was  right,  he  did  hate  them! 

At  the  office  he  found  that  a  package  had  come 
for  him  in  the  mail,  and  a  letter.  Both  had  been 
opened  by  the  authorities.  He  read  the  letter  first. 
It  was  from  Helen.  She  had  heard  that  cigarettes 
were  a  great  solace  to  men  in  his  situation,  and  so 
she  had  sent  him  a  large  carton  of  them.  She 
expressed  the  hope  that  everything  was  going  well, 
and  she  filled  the  rest  of  her  letter  with  gossip  of 
the  Kilmers.  Mrs.  Hilmer  was  a  little  better  and 
she  was  wheeling  her  out  on  fine  days  just  in  front 
of  the  house.  The  nurse  had  gone  and  she  was 
doing  everything.  But  these  people  had  been  so 
good  to  her!  What  else  was  there  left  to  do? 
She  ended  with  a  restrained  dignity.  She  offered 
neither  sympathy  nor  reproaches.  Fred  had  to 
concede  that  it  was  a  master  stroke  of  implied 
martyrdom.  He  flung  the  letter  into  the  nearest 


182  BROKEN  TO  THE  PLOW 

wastebasket.  He  had  an  impulse  to  do  the  same 
thing  with  the  cigarettes,  but  the  thought  of  Mo 
net's  pleasure  in  them  restrained  him.  He  took  the 
package  to  the  dormitory.  Monet  had  gone  up 
before  him. 

Fred  threw  his  burden  on  Monet's  bed.  The 
youth  gave  a  low  whistle  of  delight. 

'Tall  Malls!"  he  cried,  incredulously.  ''Where 
did  you  get  them  ? " 

"They  came  from  my  wife.'* 

"Oh!  ...  Don't  you  want  any  of  them?" 

"No." 

At  the  smoking  hour  Fred  saw  Monet  take  out 
his  pitiful  little  bag  of  cheap  tobacco  and  roll  the 
usual  cigarette. 

"What? .  .  .  Aren't  you  smoking  Pall  Malls?"  he 
asked,  with  a  shade  of  banter  in  his  voice. 

Monet  shook  his  head.  "I  don't  want  them, 
either.  .  .  .  What  shall  we  do?  Give  them  to  the 
others?" 

Fred  stared  through  a  sudden  mist.  "Why— 
yes.  Just  whatever  you  like." 

That  night,  when  everyone  else  was  asleep,  Fred 
Starratt  told  Felix  Monet  his  story.  .  .  . 


CHAPTER  XIV 

morning,  at  the  beginning  of  the  second 
week  of  Fred  Starratt's  stay  at  Fairview,  as 
he  and  Monet  were  swinging  back  to  lunch  after  a 
brisk  walk,  they  received  orders  to  fall  in  line 
with  the  inmates  of  Ward  6. 

"Things  will  be  better  now,"  Monet  said,  with 
his  usual  air  of  quiet  reassurance. 

And  so  it  proved. 

Fred's  first  introduction  was  to  the  dining  room. 
It  was  not  an  extraordinary  place,  and  yet  Fred 
gave  a  little  gasp  as  he  entered  it  and  stood  staring 
almost  foolishly  at  the  tables  set  with  clean  linen. 
Three  of  its  sides  were  made  up  almost  entirely 
of  windows,  before  which  the  shades  were  drawn 
to  shut  out  the  hot  noonday  sun,  and  its  floor  of 
polished  hardwood  glistened  even  in  the  subdued 
light.  They  sat  down  in  the  first  seats  that  came  to 
hand,  and  it  was  not  until  some  cold  meat  was 
passed  that  Fred  discovered  a  knife  and  fork  at  his 
place.  The  meat  was  neither  choice  nor  dainty, 
but  somehow  just  the  fact  of  this  knife  and  fork 
gave  it  extraordinary  zest.  Later  on,  small  pats 
of  butter  were  circulated  and  a  spoonful  of  sugar 
apiece  for  the  tea.  And  once  again  he  listened  to 
people  talk  while  they  ate  .  .  .  heard  a  subdued,  but 


1 84  BROKEN   TO   THE  PLOW 

sane,  laugh  or  two.  .  .  .  There  was  a  smoking  room 
also,  not  overlarge,  but  adequate. 

The  inmates  of  Ward  6,  from  whom  Fred  had 
stood  aloof,  welcomed  him  warmly.  He  was  at  a 
loss  to  know  why  until  Monet  explained. 

"It's  the  cigarettes." 

"Ah,  then  you  distributed  them  here ?  I  thought 
they  went  to  the  other  poor  devils." 

The  youth  turned  a  wistful  glance  toward  him. 
"I  knew  you'd  get  over  to  this  place  finally  .  .  .  and 
I  wanted  them  to  like  you.  ..." 

Fred  fell  silent  over  the  implied  rebuke. 

The  dormitories  were  large  and  light  and  airy  and 
scrupulously  clean,  but  the  usual  institutional  chill 
pervaded  everything.  .  .  .  Yet,  for  a  season,  Fred 
Starratt  found  all  discrimination  smothered  in  his 
reaction  to  normal  sights  and  sounds.  But,  after 
a  day  or  two,  the  same  human  adaptability  that 
had  made  him  accept  the  life  in  Ward  1  as  a  matter 
of  course  rose  to  the  new  environment  and  occasion. 
Presently  his  critical  faculty  flooded  back  again — ' 
almost  for  the  first  time  since  his  arrest.  And  he 
knew  instinctively  that  he  was  standing  again  on 
surer  ground.  He  began  to  wonder,  for  instance, 
just  what  the  commonwealth  was  doing  for  these 
human  derelicts  which  it  shed  such  facile  tears 
over.  ...  He  knew,  of  course,  what  it  had  done  in  his 
case.  It  had  given  him  three  indifferent  meals, 
vaccinated  him,  put  him  through  a  few  stereotyped 
quizzes  to  assure  itself  that  he  was  neither  insane 
nor  criminal,  and  finally  moved  him  on  to  a  less 


BROKEN   TO   THE  PLOW  185 

trying  but  an  equally  vacuous  existence.  He  used 
to  wonder  just  what  tortures  the  others  had  en 
dured  during  that  week  of  probation  in  Ward  1, 
which,  in  nearly  every  case,  so  far  as  he  could 
learn,  included  the  experience  of  the  bull  pen. 
For,  after  all,  these  other  men  were  physically 
shaken  from  excess — weak,  spent,  tremulous.  He 
had  been  through  mental  tortures,  but,  at  least, 
his  body  and  soul  had  had  some  fitness  for  the 
strain  upon  him.  How  close  did  the  winds  of  mad 
ness  come  to  snapping  clean  these  empty  reeds  .  .  . 
how  many  were  broken  utterly?  He  asked  Monet. 

"Lots  of  them  go  under,"  Felix  Monet  had 
returned.  ' '  I  think  I  came  very  near  it  myself.  .  .  . 
I  remember  that  first  night  I  spent  alone  in  Ward 
One.  ...  I'd  been  three  weeks  without  a  drop  of 
anything  to  drink.  Cut  off,  suddenly,  like  that!" 
He  made  a  swift  gesture.  "And  all  at  once  I  found 
myself  in  a  madhouse.  I  actually  knocked  my 
head  against  the  wall  that  night.  .  .  .  And,  in 
the  morning,  came  the  bull  pen.  .  .  .  They  knew  I 
wasn't  insane.  My  record — everything — proved 
that!  .  .  .  When  I  protested,  their  excuse  was  that 
everyone  was  equal  here  .  .  .  there  were  no  favorites. 
.  .  .  More  lies  in  the  name  of  equality !  The  thing 
doesn't  exist — it  never  has  existed.  Nothing  is 
equal,  and  trying  to  make  it  so  produces  hell. 
They're  always  trying  to  level  .  .  .  level.  They 
want  to  strip  you  of  everything  but  your  flock  mind. 
Ah  yes,  timid  sheep  make  easy  herding!" 

For   the   first   time   Fred   Starratt   saw   Monet 


1 86  BROKEN   TO   THE  PLOW 

quivering  with  unleashed  conviction,  and  he 
glimpsed  the  hidden  turbulence  of  spirit  which 
churned  under  the  placid  surface. 

"After  a  while,"  Monet  went  on,  "when  I  got 
almost  to  the  snapping  point,  they  sent  me  to 
Ward  Six.  You  know  how  it  is — like  a  clear,  cold 
plunge  ...  it  wakes  you  up.  .  .  .  There's  a  method  in 
it  all.  They  know  that  after  a  week  in  hell  you 
find  even  purgatory  desirable." 

"And  yet,  once  you  got  away,  you  traveled  the 
same  road  that  had  brought  you  here  in  the  first 
place.  .  .  .  Was  the  game  worth  the  candle?" 

"It  was  an  escape  while  it  lasted,  even  though  it 
did  lead  me  to  prison  again.  .  .  .  But  isn't  that  where 
escape  always  leads?  The  world  is  a  good  deal 
like  Fairview — a  rule-ridden  institution  on  a  larger 
scale.  .  .  .  We  escape  for  a  time  in  our  work,  in  our 
play,  in  our  loves,  but  the  tether's  pretty  short. 
.  .  .  And  finally,  one  day,  death  swings  the  door 
open  and  wre  go  farther  afield." 

"To  another  institution  with  a  little  more  garden 
space?"  Fred  queried,  pensively. 

Monet  shrugged.     "Perhaps.  .  .  .  Who  knows?" 

There  followed  another  week  of  idleness,  and  one 
day,  as  Fred  Starratt  was  dawdling  in  the  sun, 
Harrison  came  up  to  him  and  said : 

"The  head  waiter  in  the  dining  room  at  Ward 
Six  goes  out  to-morrow.  Would  you  like  his  job?" 

"Like  it?"  Fred  found  himself  echoing,  in 
credulously.  "Can  I  begin  at  once  .  .  .  now?" 


BROKEN   TO   THE  PLOW  187 

Harrison  chuckled  with  rare  good  nature.  "Well, 
to-morrow,  anyway.  Just  report  in  the  kitchen 
after  breakfast." 

He  could  hardly  wait  for  the  next  morning  to 
come.  He  bungled  things  horribly  at  first.  It 
looked  easy  enough  from  the  side  lines — bringing 
in  the  plates  of  steaming  food,  doling  out  sugar  for 
the  tea,  passing  the  dishpan  about  at  the  end  of 
the  meal  for  the  inmates  to  yield  up  their  knives 
and  forks.  But  after  the  first  day  Fred  was  swept 
with  a  healing  humility.  It  was  necessary  for 
even  the  humblest  occupation  to  be  lighted  with 
flickerings  of  skill. 

He  liked  setting  the  table  best,  especially  in  the 
morning  after  the  breakfast  crowd  had  gone. 
Then  the  sun  was  not  yet  too  hot  for  comfort  and 
the  long  dining  room  was  bathed  in  a  golden  mist. 
In  a  corner  near  one  of  the  windows  a  canary  hopped 
blithely  about  its  bobbing  cage  and  released  its  soul 
in  a  flood  of  song.  He  would  begin  by  laying  the 
plates  first,  inverted,  in  long,  precise  rows.  Then 
carefully  he  would  group  the  knives  and  forks  about 
them.  Not  only  carefully,  but  slowly,  so  that  the 
task  might  not  be  accomplished  too  readily. 
And  all  the  time  his  thoughts  would  be  flying  back 
and  forth  .  .  .  back  and  forth,  like  a  weaver's 
shuttle.  At  first  these  thoughts  would  pound 
harshly;  but  gradually,  under  the  spell  of  his 
busy  hands,  he  would  find  his  mental  process 
growing  less  and  less  painful,  until  he  would 
wake  up  suddenly  and  find  that  he  had  been 


1 88  BROKEN   TO   THE  PLOW 

day  dreaming,  escaping  for  a  time  into  a  heaven 
of  forget  fulness. 

Toward  the  end  of  the  month  a  crew  was  picked 
among  the  inmates  of  Ward  6  to  man  a  construction 
camp  a  few  miles  to  the  north  where  the  state  was 
building  a  dam.  Clancy  was  among  the  number, 
and  Fordham  and  Wainright,  junior.  Monet  was 
offered  the  choice  of  assisting  Fred  Starratt  in  the 
dining  room  or  going  out  with  the  kitchen  staff  to 
camp.  He  chose  the  dining-room  job. 

The  only  personal  news  from  the  outside  world 
came  to  Fred  in  a  weekly  letter  from  Helen,  which 
arrived  every  Saturday  night.  He  used  to  tear 
the  envelopes  open  viciously  and  read  every  word 
with  cold  disdain.  He  never  thought  of  answering 
one  .  .  .  indeed,  many  a  time  he  had  an  impulse 
to  send  them  back  unopened.  But  curiosity  always 
got  the  better  hand.  Not  that  he  found  her  news  of 
such  moment,  but  her  dissimulation  fascinated  him. 
She  never  chided  him  for  not  replying  .  .  .  she  never 
complained  .  .  .  but  every  line  was  flavored  with  the 
self -justification  of  all  essential  falseness.  She  was 
playing  a  game  with  herself  as  completely  as  if  she 
had  written  the  letters  and  then  scribbled  her  own 
name  upon  the  envelope.  She  was  looking  forward 
to  the  day  when  she  could  say : 

* '  I  did  my  duty  ...  I  helped  start  him  in  business 
...  I  saved  him  from  jail  ...  I  wrote  him  a  letter 
every  week,  in  spite  of  the  fact  that  he  never 
answered  me.  .  .  .  What  more  would  you  have  a 
woman  do?" 


BROKEN   TO   THE  PLOW  189 

What  more,  indeed?  How  completely  he  read 
her  now!  Yes,  even  between  the  lines  of  her 
nonchalant  gossipings  he  could  glimpse  her  soul  in 
all  its  intricate  completeness.  Her  letters  were  salt 
on  his  deadened  wound.  Perhaps  that  was  why 
he  did  not  return  them  unopened.  He  felt  vaguely 
that  it  would  be  a  shameful  thing  to  be  ultimately 
sealed  to  indifference. 

But  one  Saturday  night  two  letters  were  put 
into  his  hand.  He  read  the  strange  one  first. 

I  have  not  written  you  before  because  I  had  no  news  for 
you.  Yesterday  I  passed  Kilmer's  house  and  saw  your  wife 
wheeling  Mrs.  Hilmer  up  and  down  the  sidewalk.  Some 
day  when  I  get  a  chance  I  shall  speak  to  Mrs.  Hilmer. 

I  am  living  in  a  lodging  house  on  Turk  Street.     My  name  is 
Sylvia  Molineaux.    You  will  find  my  address  below.    Write 
and  tell  me  what  you  want.    And  always  remember  that  I 
am  here  watching. 
13  GINGER. 


CHAPTER  XV 

'"TOWARD  the  middle  of  the  following  week  Fred 
•*•  answered  Ginger's  letter.  But  his  phrases  were 
guarded  and  his  description  of  life  at  the  hospital 
full  of  studied  distortion.  He  knew  quite  well 
that  every  letter  which  left  the  institution  was 
opened  and  censored,  but,  with  certain  plans  lying 
fallow  in  his  brain,  he  had  a  method  back  of  the 
exaggerated  contentment  he  pictured.  He  had  'a 
feeling  that  Ginger  would  not  be  misled  altogether. 
She  knew  the  deceitful  bravado  of  life  too  well  and, 
according  to  her  own  report,  something  of  the 
existence  he  was  leading  in  the  bargain.  He  found 
himself  curiously  willing  to  take  anything  from  her 
hand  that  was  in  her  power  to  supply.  He  felt  no 
sense  of  awkwardness,  no  arrogant  pride,  no  irritat 
ing  obligation.  She  had  become  for  him  one  of  the 
definite,  though  unexplainable,  facts  of  existence 
which  he  accepted  with  all  the  simplicity  of  a  child 
of  misfortune. 

She  answered  promptly,  sending  cigarettes  and 
tobacco  and  a  pipe.  But  her  letter  was  devoid  of 
news — except  that  she  had  passed  Hilmer's  again 
and  found  Helen  wheeling  Mrs.  Hilmer  back  and 
forth  in  the  sunshine  at  the  appointed  hour.  But, 
as  time  wore  on,  it  transpired  that  this  seemingly 


BROKEN   TO   THE  PLOW  191 

innocent  passing  and  repassing  of  the  Kilmer  house 
carried  unmistakable  point.  Presently,  to  Mrs. 
Hilmer,  basking  in  the  sun  and  deserted  for  a 
moment,  Ginger  had  nodded  a  brief  good-morning. 
There  followed  other  opportunities  for  even  more 
prolonged  greetings  until  the  moment  when  Ginger 
had  boldly  carried  on  a  short  conversation  in  the 
coldly  calm  presence  of  Helen  Starratt.  Helen 
must  have  known  Ginger.  It  was  inconceivable 
that  any  woman,  under  the  circumstances,  could 
have  forgotten.  But  either  indecision  or  a  veiled 
purpose  made  her  assume  indifference,  and  Ginger's 
progress  was  registered  in  a  short  sentence  at  the 
end  of  a  brief  scrawl  which  said : 

To-day  I  took  a  book  out  and  read  to  Mrs.  Hilmer  for  an 
hour  in  the  sunshine. 

And  later  another  statement  forwarded  this 
curious  drama  with  pregnant  swiftness: 

Yesterday,  I  told  Mrs.  Hilmer  about  you. 

Fred  read  this  sentence  over  and  over  again.  To 
what  purpose  did  Ginger  discuss  him  with  Mrs. 
Hilmer?  .  .  .  Surely  not  altogether  in  the  name  of 
entertainment. 

Meanwhile,  summer  died,  hot  and  palpitant  and 
arid  to  the  end.  And  autumn  came  gently  with 
cool,  foggy  mornings  and  days  of  sunshine  mellowed 
like  old  gold.  Fred  Starratt  rose  in  rapid  succession 


i92  BROKEN   TO   THE  PLOW 

to  the  position  of  pantryman,  head  waiter  to  the 
attendants,  assistant  bookkeeper  in  the  office. 
He  was  given  more  and  more  freedom.  Indeed, 
between  the  working  intervals,  undisturbed  by  even 
a  formal  surveillance,  he  and  Monet  fell  to  taking 
walks  far  afield.  He  found  the  shorter  days  more 
tolerable.  With  dusk  coming  on  rapidly,  it  was 
easier  to  accept  the  inflexible  rule  that  required 
everyone  to  be  in  bed  and  locked  up  by  seven 
o'clock. 

New  faces  made  their  appearance  in  Ward  6,  old 
ones  vanished.  Clancy  made  a  get-away  some 
time  in  September  just  before  the  construction 
camp  broke  up.  Fordham  tried  also,  but  was  un 
successful,  and  got  a  month  in  the  bull  pen  for  his 
pains.  These  adventures  stirred  everyone  to  vague 
restlessness.  Fred  began  to  speculate  on  chances, 
talking  them  over  with  Monet.  But  the  boy 
seemed  listless  and  depressed,  without  enthusiasm 
for  anything.  He  brooded  a  great  deal  apart. 
Finally  one  day  Fred  asked  him  what  was  troubling 
him. 

"I  miss  my  music,"  he  said,  briefly. 

Fred  prodded  further.  His  need  was,  of  course, 
for  a  violin. 

"We'll  write  Ginger,"  Fred  decided  at  once. 

It  had  seemed  quite  a  matter  of  course  until 
he  sat  down  with  pen  in  hand  and  then  he  had  a 
feeling  that  this  last  demand  was  excessive.  He 
fancied  she  would  achieve  it  someway,  and  he  was 
not  mistaken.  The  violin  came  and,  everything 


BROKEN   TO   THE  PLOW  193 

considered,  it  was  not  a  bad  one.  Monet's  joy  was 
pathetic.  Fred  wrote  back  their  thanks.  "How 
did  you  manage  it?"  he  asked. 

Her  reply  was  brief  and  significant:  "You  forget 
I  know  all  kinds  of  people." 

From  the  moment  the  violin  arrived  Monet  was 
a  changed  man.  Suddenly  he  became  full  of  nerv 
ous  reactions  to  everything  about  him.  He  lost 
all  his  sluggish  indifference,  he  talked  of  flight  now 
with  fascinating  ardor. 

"When  shall  it  be?  Let  us  get  out  quickly. 
We  can  make  our  way  easily  with  this!"  he  would 
cry,  tapping  the  violin  lovingly.  "While  I  play 
on  street  corners  you  can  collect  the  dimes  and 
nickels." 

Monet  had  meant  to  be  absurd,  of  course,  but 
Fred  was  finding  nothing  absurd  or  impossible  these 
days.  The  youth's  laughing  suggestions  flamed 
him  with  a  sudden  yearning  for  vagabondage.  He 
wanted,  himself,  to  be  up  and  off.  But  by  this 
time  October  was  upon  them,  ushered  in  by  ex 
traordinary  rainfall.  The  coming  rain  gave  him 
pause.  He  used  to  look  searchingly  at  Monet's 
delicate  face,  and  finally  one  day,  in  answer  to  the 
oft-repeated  question,  Fred  replied: 

"I  think  we'll  have  to  stand  it  until  spring.  .  .  . 
If  we  want  to  go  east,  over  the  mountains — this  is 
no  time." 

They  had  often  speculated  as  to  a  route.  Most 
runaways  took  the  road  toward  the  coast  and 
achieved  capture  even  in  the  face  of  comparative 


i94  BROKEN   TO   THE  PLOW 

indifference.  The  trails  to  the  east  led  into  the 
heart  of  the  Sierra  Nevada  Mountains.  With  the 
first  breath  of  autumn  these  byways,  difficult  of 
achievement  in  any  case,  became  more  and  more 
impassable.  And,  while  flight  toward  the  west 
might  be  successful,  it  was  too  charged  with  a 
suggestion  of  failure  to  be  tempting. 

"We  don't  just  want  to  attempt  to  escape," 
Starratt  used  to  explain.  "We  want  to  do  it!" 

"But,  spring!"  Monet  would  echo.  "That 
means  May  at  the  earliest.  The  mountain  passes 
will  be  impossible  even  in  April.  Let's  try !  " 

"Come,  come!  Why  this  sudden  restlessness? 
I  thought  your  music  would  be  a  solace.  But  it 
seems  to  have  made  you  dissatisfied.  I  can't 
understand  it." 

"We  live  by  desire!  I  am  happy  only  when  I 
am  burning!  When  the  flame  is  out  there  are 
only  ashes." 

Fred  yielded  finally  to  the  extent  of  starting 
plans.  Food  was  the  first  consideration.  Monet 
was  still  in  the  dining  room  at  Ward  6.  About  the 
first  of  November  he  began  hoarding  sugar  and  rice. 
A  hollow  tree  in  an  obscure  corner  of  the  grounds 
back  of  the  barns  was  the  hiding  place.  Every 
day  a  little  more  was  added  to  the  store.  The 
process  communicated  a  feeling  of  extraordinary 
interest  to  them  both.  Around  this  almost  trivial 
circumstance  whirled  the  shadows  of  infinite  ro 
mance.  Escape!  At  last  these  two  men  had  a 
goal  .  .  .  they  were  no  longer  drifting. 


BROKEN   TO   THE  PLOW  195 

Once  a  week  Fred  continued  to  receive  two  letters 
— one  from  his  wife  and  one  from  Ginger.  It  was 
curious  to  compare  them — reading  an  ironical 
comedy  between  the  lines  .  .  .  creating  the  scenes 
that  were  being  enacted  by  the  triangle  of  women 
in  front  of  the  Hilmer  dwelling  every  day  in  the 
early  morning  sunshine.  For,  as  time  went  on,  it 
appeared  that  Ginger  walked  through  her  inscrut 
able  part  with  irritating  fidelity — that  is,  irritating 
to  Helen  Starratt.  It  could  not  be  otherwise,  Fred 
decided,  remembering  the  look  of  cool  contempt 
which  his  wife  had  thrown  at  Ginger's  departing  fig 
ure  on  the  day  of  their  last  interview.  He  saw  Mrs. 
Hilmer  only  vaguely,  in  a  half-light,  and  yet  out  of 
the  fragmentary  sentences  he  got  a  sense  of  some 
thing  patient  and  brooding  and  terrible  waiting  an 
appointed  season.  She  seemed  to  be  sitting  back 
like  some  veiled  and  mystic  chorus,  watching  the 
duel  of  the  other  two  and  somehow  shaping  it  to 
her  passive  purpose. 

And  where  was  Hilmer  in  it  all?  Somehow,  in 
spite  of  his  masculine  virility,  he  seemed  to  have  no 
place  nor  footing  upon  the  narrow  ledge  of  feminine 
subtleties.  No  doubt,  as  usual,  he  was  proceeding 
in  his  direct  and  complacent  line,  unaware  of  any 
thing  save  the  brutally  obvious.  .  .  .  Perhaps  only 
the  brutally  obvious  had  any  existence,  perhaps 
Fred  Starratt  was  spinning  fantasies  out  of  threads 
which  came  to  his  hand.  He  did  not  know,  he 
could  not  say,  but  in  the  still  watches  of  the  night 
the  figures  of  these  three  women  circled  round  and 


1 96  BROKEN   TO   THE  PLOW 

round  the  seething  caldron  of  the  future  like  skinny 
witches  upon  a  blasted  heath. 

Meanwhile,  rain  succeeded  rain.  Fred  Starratt 
knew  that  escape  was  impossible  under  these  con 
ditions,  but  he  let  Monet  chatter  away  and  con 
tinue  his  hoarding.  Thus  they  passed  Thanks 
giving,  and  suddenly  Fred  felt  that  Christmas 
would  soon  be  upon  them,  with  all  its  heartbreaking 
melancholy. 

As  Christmas  drew  near  a  bitter  restlessness  be 
gan  to  pervade  Ward  6.  The  rain  fell  in  torrents 
for  days.  There  was  little  chance  for  fresh  air  or 
exercise  except  in  the  bull  pen,  which  was  provided 
with  a  shed  that  ran  the  length  of  the  wall.  Into 
this  dismal  and  jail-like  yard  poured  the  entire 
human  wreckage  of  Fairview.  Fred  and  Monet 
went  with  the  others  for  one  or  two  days,  but 
finally  Monet  said: 

"  Let's  walk  in  the  rain  .  .  .  anything  would  be 
better  than  this." 

And  so  the  next  day,  waiting  until  a  pelting 
shower  had  merged  gradually  into  a  faint  mist, 
the  two  took  a  quick-step  run  about  the  parade 
ground.  They  came  back  splashed  with  mud  and 
dripping  wet,  but  their  cheeks  glowed  and  their 
hearts  beat  quickly.  After  that,  no  matter  how 
violent  the  downpour,  they  managed  to  take  a 
turn  in  the  open.  Sometimes  they  circled  the 
grounds  repeatedly.  Again,  if  the  rain  proved  too 
drenching,  one  short  run  was  all  they  could  achieve. 


BROKEN  TO   THE  PLOW  197 

At  the  end  of  a  week  of  such  heroic  exercising 
Monet  said,  significantly: 

"You  see  how  well  I  am  standing  this!    Every 
day  toughens  us  up.  .  .  .  We  ought  to  be  leaving 


soon." 


"After  Christmas,"  Fred  conceded,  briefly. 

There  followed  a  brief  respite  of  clear,  crisp  days, 
warming  to  mellowness  at  noon.  After  the  mid 
day  meal  everyone  crawled  out  into  the  sunlight, 
standing  in  little  shivering  groups,  while  Monet 
played  upon  his  violin.  The  cracked  inventor, 
pulling  his  cardboard  box  on  its  ridiculous  spools, 
stopped  to  listen;  Weeping  Willow  forgot  his  grief 
and  almost  achieved  a  smile.  Only  the  Emperor 
of  Japan  continued  his  pacing  back  and  forth, 
his  royal  gloom  untouched  by  any  responsive 
chord. 

But  the  reaction  from  this  sedative  of  music  was 
in  every  case  violent.  The  remainder  of  the  after 
noon  passed  in  tragic  unquiet.  One  day  Harrison 
called  Fred  aside.  The  assistant  superintendent 
was  daily  yielding  more  and  more  to  Fred's 
judgment. 

"What  do  you  think  about  a  Christmas  tree  for 
Ward  Six?" 

For  a  moment  Fred  was  uncertain.  He  knew  the 
poignance  of  disturbing  memories.  But,  in  the 
end,  he  felt  that  perhaps  the  floodgate  of  grief  had 
best  be  lifted.  He  knew  by  this  time  the  cleansing 
solace  of  tears. 

"We've  never  done  it  before,"  Harrison  went  on. 


1 98  BROKEN   TO   THE  PLOW 

"  There  has  been  a  prejudice  against  bringing  old 
days  back  too  clearly  to  these  wretches.  ...  But 
Monet's  been  playing  his  music  and  they  seem  to 
like  that." 

It  ended  by  Fred  going  out  with  Monet  and  one 
of  the  attendants  into  the  hills  and  bringing  back 
a  beautiful  fir  tree.  They  set  it  up  in  a  corner  of 
the  dining  room  and  its  bruised  fragrance  filled  the 
entire  building.  .  .  .  There  followed  the  problem  of 
its  trimming.  At  first  some  one  suggested  that  it 
was  more  beautiful  untricked  with  gauds,  but  to 
Fred,  unlighted  by  any  human  touch  its  loveliness 
seemed  too  cold  and  impersonal  and  cruelly  pagan. 
Presently  the  long  afternoons  were  filled  with  a 
pathetic  bustle.  Everyone  became  interested.  They 
popped  corn  and  strung  it  in  snow-white  garlands 
and  some  one  from  the  kitchen  sent  in  a  bowl  of 
cranberries  which  were  woven  into  a  blood-red 
necklace  for  the  central  branches.  Harrison  brought 
round  a  sack  of  walnuts  and  some  liquid  gilt  and  two 
brushes.  Men  began  to  quarrel  good-naturedly 
for  a  chance  at  the  gilding.  A  woman  attendant, 
hearing  about  the  tree,  rode,  herself,  into  the  village 
and  bought  candles.  .  .  .  Finally  it  was  finished,  and 
it  stood  in  the  early  twilight  of  a  dripping  Christmas 
Eve,  a  fantastic  captive  from  the  hills,  suffering 
its  severe  dignity  to  be  melted  in  a  cheap,  but 
human,  splendor.  .  .  .  They  had  a  late  dinner  by 
way  of  marking  the  event,  and  the  usual  turn  of 
keys  in  the  locks  at  seven  o'clock  was  missing. 
At  the  close  of  the  meal  as  they  were  bringing  on 


BROKEN   TO   THE  PLOW  199 

plum  pudding  Fred  rose  from  his  place  to  light  the 
candles.  ...  A  little  tremor  ran  through  the  room; 
Monet  started  to  play.  .  .  .  He  played  all  the  heart 
breaking  melodies — "Noel"  and  "Nazareth"  and 
"Adeste  Fideles."  Slowly  the  tears  began  to 
trickle,  but  they  fell  silently,  welling  up  from 
mysterious  reaches  too  deep  for  shallow  mur- 
murings.  Suddenly  a  thin,  quavering  voice  started 
a  song. 

"God  rest  you,  merry  gentlemen!" 

The  first  line  rang  out  in  all  its  tremulous 
bravery. 

"Merry  gentlemen!"  flashed  through  Fred's 
mind.  ' '  What  mockery ! ' ' 

But  a  swelling  chorus  took  it  up  and  in  the  next 
instant  they  were  men  again.  They  sang  it  all — 
every  word  to  the  last  line  .  .  .  repeating  each  stanza 
after  the  little  man  who  had  begun  it  and  who  had 
risen  and  taken  his  place  beside  Monet. 

"Now  to  the  Lord  sing  praises, 

All  you  within  this  place, 
And  with  true  love  and  brotherhood 

Each  other  now  embrace, 
This  holy  tide  of  Christmas 

All  other  doth  deface." 

Only  Fred  remained  silent.  He  could  not  sing, 
the  bravery  of  it  all  smote  him  too  deeply. 

"This  holy  tide  of  Christmas 
All  other  doth  deface." 


200  BROKEN   TO   THE  PLOW 

They  were  singing  the  last  words  over  again. 

Fred  Starratt  bowed  his  head.  For  the  first 
and  only  time  in  his  life  he  felt  Christ  very  near. 
But  the  Presence  passed  as  quickly.  When  he 
looked  up  the  singing  had  ceased  and  the  candles 
upon  the  tree  were  guttering  to  a  pallid  end. 
Monet  laid  down  his  violin  and  blew  out  the  dying 
flames;  his  face  was  ashen  and  as  he  grasped  the 
branches  of  the  tree  his  hand  shook.  A  man  in 
front  rose  to  his  feet.  Flockwise  the  others  followed 
his  lead.  Christmas  was  over!  .  .  .  Fred  Starratt 
had  a  sense  that  it  had  died  still-born. 

The  next  morning  came  wrapped  in  a  dreadful 
silence.  Men  stood  about  in  huddling  groups  and 
whispered.  The  exaltation  of  the  night  before 
had  been  too  violent.  A  great  dreariness  oppressed 
Fred  Starratt.  He  felt  the  inevitable  sadness  of  a 
man  who  had  met  unveiled  Beauty  face  to  face 
and  as  speedily  found  the  vision  dissolved.  The 
tree  still  swept  the  rooms  and  corridors  with  its 
fragrance,  but  in  the  harsh  daylight  its  cheap 
trappings  gave  it  a  wanton  look.  Somehow,  it 
mocked  him,  filled  him  with  a  sense  of  the  vanity 
of  life  and  all  its  fleeting  impressions.  The  rain 
came  down  in  a  tremulous  flood,  investing  every 
thing  with  its  colorless  tears.  The  trees,  the  build 
ings,  the  very  earth  itself  seemed  to  be  melting  away 
in  silvery-gray  grief. 

Just  before  noon  it  lightened  up  a  trifle  and  the 
rain  stopped. 


BROKEN   TO   THE  PLOW  201 

" Let's  get  cut  of  this!"  Monet  said,  sweeping 
the  frozen  assembly  in  the  smoking  room  with  an 
almost  scornful  glance. 

They  found  their  hats  and  without  further  ado 
they  started  on  a  swing  about  the  grounds.  It 
grew  lighter  and  lighter  ...  it  seemed  for  a  moment 
as  if  the  sun  would  presently  peep  out  from  the 
clouds.  They  achieved  the  full  length  of  the 
parade  ground  and  stopped,  panting  for  breath. 
Fred  wiped  his  forehead  with  a  huge  handkerchief. 

" Shall  we  keep  going?"  he  asked. 

Monet  nodded.  They  swung  into  a  wolfish  trot 
again,  across  a  stretch  of  green  turf,  avoiding  the 
clogging  mud  of  the  beaten  trails.  They  said 
nothing.  Presently  their  rhythmic  flight  settled 
down  to  a  pleasurable  monotony.  They  lost  all 
sense  of  time  and  space. 

Gradually  their  speed  slackened,  and  they  were 
conscious  that  they  were  winding  up  ...  up.  ... 
It  was  Monet  who  halted  first.  They  were  on  a 
flat  surface  again,  coming  out  of  a  thicket  suddenly. 
There  was  a  level  sweep  of  ground,  ending  abruptly 
in  space. 

''We're  on  Squaw  Rock!"  Fred  Starratt 
exclaimed. 

The  two  went  forward  to  the  edge  of  a  precipice. 
The  embryo  plain  leaped  violently  down  a  sheer 
three  hundred  feet  directly  into  the  lap  of  a  foam 
ing  river  pool.  Fred  peered  over. 

"There's  the  usual  Indian  legend,  isn't  there," 
he  asked  Monet,  "connected  with  this  place?" 


202  BROKEN   TO   THE  PLOW 

Monet  moved  back  with  a  little  shudder.  "Yes 
...  I  believe  there  is.  ...  The  inevitable  love 
lorn  maiden  and  the  leap  to  death.  .  .  .  Well,  it's  a 
good  plunging  place." 

They  both  fell  back  a  trifle,  letting  their  gaze 
sweep  the  landscape  below,  which  was  unfolding  in 
theatrical  unreality.  At  that  moment  the  sun 
came  out,  flooding  the  countryside  with  a  flash  of 
truant  splendor.  To  the  south  nestled  the  cluster 
of  hospital  buildings,  each  sending  out  thin  gray 
lines  of  smoke.  Moving  up  the  valley,  hugging  the 
sinuous  banks  of  the  river,  a  train  nosed  its  impu 
dent  way. 

"When  shall  we  be  leaving  for  good?"  Monet 
asked,  suddenly. 

Fred  let  out  a  deep  breath.  "The  first  time  it 
really  clears!" 

Monet  rested  his  hand  upon  Fred's  shoulder. 
"If  we  go  east  we'll  have  to  cross  the  river." 

"We'll  follow  the  railroad  track  north  for  a  mile 
or  two.  There's  a  crossing  near  Pritchard's.  I 
saw  it  on  the  day  we  went  after  the  tree." 

The  train  pulled  into  the  station  and  was  whis 
tling  on  its  way  again.  The  hospital  automobile 
swung  toward  the  grounds.  Suddenly  the  sun  was 
snuffed  out  again;  it  grew  dark  and  lowering. 

"We  had  better  be  on  our  way,"  Fred  said, 
warningly.  "It's  going  to  pour  in  less  than  no 
time." 

For  a  moment  a  silence  fell  between  them,  suc 
ceeded  by  an  outburst  from  Monet. 


BROKEN  TO  THE  PLOW  203 

~'  > 

"Let's  keep  on!"  he  cried,  harshly.  "Let's 
keep  right  on  going!  I  don't  want  to  go  back. 
I  won't,  I  tell  you!  I  won't!" 

Fred  took  him  by  the  shoulders  ...  he  was 
trembling  violently.  "Come  .  .  .  come!  We  can't 
do  that,  you  know!  .  .  .  We  haven't  provisions  or 
proper  clothing.  And  the  rain,  my  boy!  We'd 
die  of  exposure  ...  or  ...  worse!" 

"I  don't  care!"  Monet  flung  out,  passionately. 
"I'm  not  afraid  to  die  .  .  .  not  in  the  open." 

"And  you  haven't  your  violin,"  Fred  put  in, 
gently. 

"I  never  want  to  play  again — after  last  night. 
...  It  was  horrible  .  .  .  horrible.  .  .  .  'God  rest  you, 
merry  gentlemen!'  What  could  have  possessed 
them?" 

"Come,  now!  .  .  .  You'll  feel  better  to-morrow. 
.  .  .  And  I  promise  you  on  the  first  clear  day  we'll 
make  it.  ...  The  first  morning  we  wake  up  and  find 
a  cloudless  sky." 

Fred  moved  forward,  urging  Monet  to  follow. 
The  youth  gave  a  little  shiver  and  suffered  Fred's 
guidance. 

"If  I  go  back  now,"  he  said,  sadly,  "it  will  be 
forever.  I  shall  never  leave." 

Fred  turned  about  and  gave  him  a  slight  shake. 
"Nonsense!  Last  night  made  you  morbid.  Har 
rison  ought  to  have  known  better.  This  is  no  place 
for  Christmas!  One  day  should  be  always  like 
another." 

Monet  shook  his  head.     "While  they  were  sing- 


204  BROKEN    TO   THE  PLOW 

ing  .  .  .  something  passed  ...  I  can't  describe  it. 
But  I  grew  cold  all  over  ...  I  knew  at  once  that 
...  Oh,  well!  what's  the  use?  You  do  not  under 
stand!" 

He  flung  his  hands  up  in  a  gesture  of  despair. 

Fred  looked  up  at  the  sky.  It  had  grown 
ominously  black.  "We'd  better  speed  up,"  he 
said,  significantly. 

Monet  squared  himself  doggedly.  "You  run 
if  you  want  to.  ...  It  doesn't  matter  to  me  one  way 
or  another  ...  I  feel  tired." 

The  rain  began  to  fall  in  great  garrulous  drops. 
Fred  took  Monet's  sleeve  between  his  fingers; 
slowly  they  retraced  their  steps.  For  a  few  yards 
the  youth  surrendered  passively,  but  as  Fred 
neared  the  thicket  again  he  felt  the  sharp 
release  of  Monet's  coat  sleeve.  He  continued 
on  his  way.  .  .  .  Suddenly  he  heard  a  noise 
of  swift  feet  stirring  up  the  rain-soaked  leaves. 
He  turned  abruptly.  Monet  was  running  in  the 
other  direction — toward  the  precipice.  A  dreadful 
chill  swept  him.  He  tried  to  call,  to  run,  but  a 
great  weakness  transfixed  him.  The  startled  air 
made  a  foolish  whistling  sound.  Monet's  figure 
flew  on  in  silence,  gave  a  quick  leaping  movement, 
and  was  lost ! 

Fred  Starratt  crawled  back  toward  the  precipice. 
The  rain  descended  in  torrents  and  a  wind  rose  to 
meet  its  violence.  He  looked  down.  The  pool 
below  was  churning  to  whitecapped  fury,  releasing 
a  flood  of  greedy  and  ferocious  gurglings.  Gradually 


BROKEN  TO   THE  PLOW  205 

a  bitter  silence  fell  and  a  gloom  gathered.  Every 
thing  went  black  as  midnight.  .  .  . 

He  felt  a  cold  blast  playing  through  his  hair. 
Instinctively  he  put  his  hand  to  his  head.  His  hat 
was  gone. 

Suddenly  it  came  to  him  that  he  would  have  to 
go  back  to  Fairview  .  .  .  alone. 

He  rose  to  his  feet.  ''North  ...  a  mile  or  two!" 
he  muttered.  "If  I  can  once  cross  the  bridge!'* 

14 


CHAPTER  XVI 

a  certain  evening  in  February  Fred  Starratt, 
from  the  upper  deck  of  a  ferryboat,  again 
saw  the  dusky  outlines  of  San  Francisco  stretch 
themselves  in  faint  allurement  pricked  with  glitter 
ing  splendor.  It  was  a  mild  night — the  skies  clear, 
the  air  tinged  with  pleasant  chill,  the  bay  stilled 
to  nocturnal  quiet. 

He  had  come  out  upon  the  upper  deck  to  be  alone. 
He  wanted  to  approach  the  city  of  his  birth  in  decent 
solitude,  to  feel  the  thrill  of  home-coming  in  all  its 
poignant  melancholy.  He  had  expected  the  event 
to  assume  a  special  significance,  to  be  fraught  with 
hidden  meaning,  to  set  his  pulses  leaping.  But  he 
had  to  confess  that  neither  the  beauty  of  the  night 
nor  the  uncommon  quality  of  the  event  moved 
him.  Had  he  been  wrung  dry  of  all  emotional  re 
action?  It  was  not  until  a  woman  came  from  the 
stuffy  cabin  and  took  a  seat  in  a  sheltered  corner 
outside  that  he  had  the  slightest  realization  of  the 
nearness  of  his  old  environment.  As  she  passed 
close  to  his  pacing  form  a  sickly  sweet  odor  en 
veloped  him.  He  looked  after  her  retreating  figure. 
She  was  carrying  a  yellow  armful  of  blossoming 
acacia.  The  perfume  evoked  a  sad  memory  of 
virginal  springs  innumerable  .  .  .  springs  that 


BROKEN   TO   THE  PLOW  207 

seemed  to  go  back  wistfully  beyond  his  own 
existence  .  .  .  springs  long  dead  and  never  to  be 
revived.  Dead?  No,  perhaps  not  quite  that,  but 
springs  never  to  be  again  his  portion.  This 
perfume  of  the  blossoming  acacia  .  .  .  how  in  the 
old  days  it  had  always  brought  home  a  sense  of 
awakening,  a  sense  of  renewal  to  a  land  burned  and 
seared  and  ravished  in  the  hot  and  tearless  passion 
of  summer!  Following  the  first  rains  would  come 
the  faint  flush  of  green  upon  the  hillsides,  growing 
a  little  deeper  as  the  healing  floods  released  them 
selves,  and  then,  one  day,  suddenly,  almost  over 
night,  the  acacia  would  bend  beneath  a  yellow 
burden,  sending  a  swooning  fragrance  out  to  match 
the  yellow  sunlight  of  February.  From  that  mo 
ment  on  the  pageant  was  continuous,  bud  and  blos 
som  and  virginal  leaf  succeeding  one  another  in 
showering  abundance.  But  nothing  that  followed 
quite  matched  the  heavy  beauty  of  these  first  golden 
boughs,  nothing  that  could  evoke  quite  the  same 
infinite  yearning  for  hidden  and  heroic  destinies. 
He  defined  the  spell  of  the  perfume  again,  but  he 
did  not  feel  it.  It  shook  his  memory  to  its  founda 
tions,  but  it  left  his  senses  cold.  And  the  city  be 
fore  him  was  as  sharply  revealed  and  as  cruelly 
unmoving. 

Suddenly  he  was  done  with  a  desire  for  solitude 
and  he  went  below.  A  half  score  of  men  were 
idling  upon  the  lower  deck.  He  began  his  restless 
pacings  again,  stroking  his  faded  beard  with  a 
strangely  white  hand.  Finally  he  stopped,  gazing 


208  BROKEN   TO   THE  PLOW 

wistfully  at  the  dark  beauty  of  the  ferry  tower, 
sending  its  winsome  shaft  up  into  the  quivering 
night.  A  man  at  his  elbow  began  to  speak  in  the 
characteristically  Californian  fashion  about  the 
weather. 

"Yes,"  Fred  assented,  briefly,  "it  is  a  fine  night." 
"Too  fine,"  the  stranger  returned.     "We  need 


rain." 


"Haven't  you  had  much  down  this  way,  either?" 
Fred  found  himself  inquiring,  glad  of  a  chance  to 
escape  for  the  moment  into  the  commonplace. 

"At  the  beginning  of  the  season  it  came  on  a  bit, 
but  since  Christmas  there  has  been  scarcely  a  drop. 
How  does  the  country  look?" 

Fred  leaned  against  a  water  barrel  and  continued 
to  stroke  his  beard. 

"Pretty  well  burned  up.  But  the  fruit  trees  will 
soon  be  blossoming  in  spite  of  everything.  .  .  .  The 
worst  of  it  is  there  isn't  any  snow  in  the  mountains." 

"Ah,  then  you've  been  up  into  the  Sierras." 

"Yes,  since  December.  ...  I  had  to  make  my 
way  through  the  northern-  passes  just  after  Christ 
mas.  Folks  told  me  it  couldn't  be  done.  ...  I  guess 
it  would  have  been  almost  impossible  in  a  wet 
season.  But  things  were  the  same  way  up  north. 
No  end  of  rain  in  the  fall  and  none  to  speak  of 
since  the  holidays.  But  at  that  I've  been  through 
some  tough  times.  .  .  .  How  are  things  in  town?" 

The  stranger  unbuttoned  his  shabby  overcoat 
and  took  out  a  bag  of  tobacco.  His  indifferent 
suit  and  thick  blue-flannel  shirt,  which  ordinarily 


BROKEN   TO   THE  PLOW  209 

would  have  stamped  him  as  an  artisan,  was  belied 
by  the  quality  of  his  speech. 

"  Things  are  rotten.  Everybody  is  striking. 
You  can't  get  work  anywhere  except  you  want  to 
scab.  .  .  .  You'd  better  have  stayed  where  you  came 
from." 

There  was  a  tentative  quality  in  this  observation 
that  roused  in  Fred  a  vague  speculation.  He  had 
a  feeling  that  the  stranger  was  leading  up  cautiously 
to  some  subject.  He  looked  again,  this  time 
sharply,  at  his  companion  of  the  moment.  There 
was  nothing  extraordinary  in  the  face  except  the 
eyes  burning  fitfully  under  the  gloom  of  incredibly 
thick,  coarse,  reddish  eyebrows.  His  mouth  was 
a  curious  mixture  of  softness  and  cruelty,  and  his 
hands  were  broad,  but  not  ungraceful. 

"Well,  if  a  man  is  starving  hell  do  almost  any 
thing,  I  guess,"  Fred  returned,  significantly. 

"Do  you  mean  that  you  would — if  you  were 
starving?" 

"I'm  starving  now!"  escaped  Fred  Starratt, 
almost  involuntarily. 

"I  thought  so,"  said  the  other,  quietly. 

"Why?" 

"I've  seen  plenty  of  starving  men  in  my  day. 
I  know  the  look.  And  you're  suffering  in  the  bar 
gain.  Not  physically.  But  you've  been  through 
a  hell  of  some  kind.  Am  I  right?" 

"Yes  .  .  .  you're  quite  right." 

The  boat  was  swinging  into  the  slip.  Already  a 
crowd  was  moving  down  upon  them. 


210  BROKEN   TO   THE  PLOW 

' 'That's  why  I  spoke  to  you.  A  man  who's  been 
through  hell  is  like  a  field  freshly  broken  to  the 
plow.  He's  ready  for  seed." 

Fred  cast  an  ironical  glance  at  the  man  before 
him.  "And  you,  I  suppose,  are  the  sower,"  he 
said,  mockingly.  "A  parson?" 

The  other  laughed,  disclosing  greenish  teeth. 
"Of  a  sort.  .  .  .  Perhaps  high  priest  would  be  nearer 
the  truth.  There's  a  certain  purposeful  cruelty 
about  that  term  which  appeals  to  me.  I'm  a  bit  of  a 
fanatic,  you  know.  ...  But  I  like  to  get  my  recruits 
when  they're  bleeding  raw.  I  like  them  when  the 
salt  of  truth  can  sting  deep.  .  .  .  Wounds  heal  so 
quickly  ...  so  disgustingly  quickly." 

He  spat  contemptuously  and  began  to  cram  a 
blackened  pipe  to  overflowing.  The  boat  had 
landed  and  already  the  crowd  was  moving  up  the 
apron.  Fred  and  his  companion  felt  themselves 
urged  forward  by  the  pressure  of  this  human  tide. 

"Come  and  have  some  coffee  with  me,"  Fred 
heard  the  man  at  his  side  say  in  a  half-commanding 
tone.  "My  name  is  Storch.  What  shall  I  call 
you?" 

"Anything  you  like!"  Fred  snapped,  viciously. 

The  other  laughed.  "You're  in  capital  form! 
Upon  my  word  we'll  get  on  famously  together." 
And  he  spat  again,  this  time  with  satisfaction  and 
rare  good  humor. 

Fred  Starratt  looked  up.  They  had  emerged 
suddenly  from  the  uncertain  twilight  of  a  stone- 
flanked  corridor  into  a  harsh  blue-white  flood  of 


BROKEN  TO   THE  PLOW  211 

electricity.  A  confused  babble  of  noises  fell  upon 
his  ears.  He  put  out  his  hand  instinctively  and 
clutched  the  arm  of  the  man  at  his  side. 

"Yes  .  .  .  yes  ..."  the  voice  of  his  companion 
broke  in,  reassuringly.  "You're  all  right.  In  a 
moment .  .  .  after  you've  had  coffee  things  will .  .  ." 

He  clutched  again  and  presently,  like  a  drowning 
man  borne  upon  the  waves  by  a  superior  force, 
he  felt  himself  guided  through  a  maze  of  confusing 
details,  into  swift  and  certain  safety. 

The  coffee  house  into  which  Fred  Starratt  had 
been  led  by  Storch  was  choked  with  men  and  the 
thick  odor  of  coffee  and  fried  ham.  To  a  man  who 
had  eaten  sparingly  for  days  the  smell  of  food 
was  nauseating.  Storch  ordered  coffee  for  himself 
and  a  bowl  of  soup  for  Fred.  This  last  was  a 
good  choice  in  spite  of  the  fact  that  for  a  moment 
Fred  felt  instinctive  rebellion.  These  pale,  watery 
messes  were  too  suggestive  of  Fairview.  But  in  the 
end  the  warm  fluid  dissipated  his  weakness  and  he 
began  to  experience  a  normal  hunger. 

Storch  finished  his  cup  of  coffee  and  wiped  a  dark- 
brown  ooze  from  his  upper  lip  with  a  paper  napkin. 

"Better  take  a  slice  of  bread  or  two,"  he  advised 
Fred,  "and  then  call  it  quits.  You'll  feel  better 
in  the  long  run.  A  starved  stomach  shouldn't  be 
surprised  with  too  much  food." 

Fred  obeyed.  He  could  see  that  this  man  under 
stood  many  things. 

Gradually  the  crowd  thinned.     Soon  only  Fred 


212  BROKEN  TO  THE  PLOW 

and  Storch  were  left  at  the  particular  table  that 
they  had  chosen.  Stragglers  came  and  went,  but 
still  Storch  made  no  move  to  go,  and  Fred  was 
equally  inactive.  He  felt  warm  and  comfortably 
drowsy  and,  on  the  whole,  quite  content.  The 
waiter  cleared  away  the  empty  dishes  and  then 
discreetly  ignored  them.  Fred  fell  to  studying  his 
reflection  in  the  polished  mirror  running  the  length 
of  the  room.  He  had  to  acknowledge  that  he 
looked  savage,  with  his  hair  long  and  untidy  and  a 
bristling,  sunburnt  beard  smothering  his  features. 
And  suddenly,  in  the  intensity  of  his  concentration, 
he  felt  a  swooning  sense  of  nonexistence,  as  if  his 
inner  consciousness  had  detached  itself  someway 
from  the  egotism  of  the  flesh  and  stood  apart, 
watching.  .  .  .  He  was  recalled  by  Storch' s  voice. 
He  shuddered  slightly  and  turned  his  face  toward 
his  questioner. 

"I  didn't  hear  what  you  said,"  escaped  him. 

Storch  leaned  forward.  "I  was  asking  what  you 
were  doing  ...  up  north  in  the  mountains  during 
December.  Only  a  desperate  man  or  a  fool  would 
take  a  chance  like  that.  .  .  .  And  I  can  see  you're 
not  a  fool.  .  .  .  There  aren't  any  prisons  up  that 
way  that  I  know  of." 

1 '  Prisons!    What  do  you  mean  ? ' ' 

''You've  escaped  from  somewhere." 

' '  How  do  you  know  ? ' ' 

"You're  still  furtive  in  spite  of  your  pretended 
calm.  I  know  the  look.  I  know  the  feeling.  I've 
seen  scores  of  men  who  have  been  through  the  mill. 


BROKEN  TO  THE  PLOW  213 

I've  been  through  the  mill  myself.  Not  once,  but 
several  times.  I've  been  in  nearly  every  jail  in  the 
country  worth  putting  up  at.  .  .  .  Even  the  Federal 
prisons  haven't  been  proof  against  me.  I've  beat 
them  all.  It's  a  game  I  like  to  play.  Just  as  one 
man  plunges  into  stocks,  or  another  breaks  strikes, 
or  another  leads  a  howling  mob  to  victory. . .  .  Every 
man  has  his  game.  What's  yours?" 

Fred  shrugged.  "Why  are  you  telling  me  all 
this?"  he  countered.  "You  don't  know  me." 

Storch  laughed,  showing  his  greenish  teeth  again. 
"What  difference  does  that  make?  ...  I'm  a  pretty 
good  judge  of  character,  and  I  think  I've  got  you 
right.  You  might  play  a  rough  game,  but  it  would 
be  square — 'according  to  your  standards.  ...  I 
question  most  standards,  but  that  is  neither  here 
nor  there.  They  shackle  some  people  extraor 
dinarily.  Just  now  you're  drifting  about  without 
any.  But  you'll  tie  to  some  sort  of  anchor  pretty 
soon.  .  .  .  That's  why  you  interest  me.  I  want  to 
get  you  while  you're  still  drifting." 

Fred  felt  a  sudden  chill.  He  was  suspicious  of 
this  ironically  genial  man  opposite  him  who 
bought  him  food  and  then  prodded  for  his  secret. 
There  was  something  diabolical  about  the  way  he 
calmly  admitted  an  impersonal  but  curiously  defi 
nite  interest. 

"What  is  your  business,  anyway?"  Fred  shot 
out,  suddenly. 

"I'm  a  fisher  for  men,"  he  replied,  cryptically. 
"Some  people  build  up  ...  others  destroy.  There 


2i4         BROKEN   TO   THE  PLOW 

must  be  always  those  who  clear  the  ground — the 
wreckers,  in  other  words.  .  .  .  There's  too  much 
attention  paid  to  building.  Folks  are  in  such  a 
hurry  they  go  about  rearing  all  kinds  of  crazy 
structures  on  rotten  foundations.  ...  I'm  looking 
for  some  human  dynamite  to  make  a  good  job." 

Fred  drew  back.  "You've  got  me  wrong,"  he 
said.  "I'm  not  a  radical." 

"Not  yet,  of  course.  Your  kind  take  a  lot  of 
punishment  before  they  see  the  light.  But  you're 
a  good  prospect — a  damned  good  prospect.  You're 
a  good  deal  like  a  young  fellow  I  met  last  fall  when 
I  was  working  over  in  the  shipyards  in  Oakland. 
He—" 

' '  Shipyards  ? ' '  interrupted  Fred.  ' '  Not  Kilmer's 
shipyards,  by  any  chance?" 

Storch  leaned  forward,  drawing  his  shaggy  eye 
brows  together.  ' '  Why  ? ' ' 

"I  know  Hilmer,  that's  all." 

Storch  continued  his  searching  scrutiny.  Fred 
felt  uneasy — it  seemed  as  if  this  man  opposite  him 
was  drawing  the  innermost  secret  of  his  soul  to  the 
surface.  Finally  Storch  rubbed  his  hands  together 
with  an  air  of  satisfaction  as  he  said: 

"So  you  know  Hilmer!  .  .  .  That  makes  you  all 
the  more  interesting.  .  .  .  Well,  well,  let's  be  moving. 
I'll  put  you  up  for  the  night.  I've  got  a  shelter, 
such  as  it  is." 

Fred  rose.  He  had  an  impulse  to  refuse.  There 
was  something  uncanny  about  the  power  of  Storch. 
He  was  at  once  fascinating  and  repulsive.  But, 


BROKEN   TO   THE  PLOW  215 

on  second  thought,  any  shelter  was  better  than 
a  night  spent  on  the  streets.  He  had  had  two 
months  of  buffeting  and  he  was  ready  for  even  an 
indifferent  comfort. 

He  ended  by  going  with  his  new-found  friend. 
They  trotted  south  along  the  Embarcadero,  hugging 
the  shadows  close.  This  street,  once  noisy  with  a 
coarse,  guzzling  gayety,  was  silent.  A  few  discon 
solate  men  hung  about  the  emasculated  bars  trying 
to  rouse  their  sluggish  spirits  on  colicky  draughts 
of  near  beer  and  grape  juice,  but  the  effect  was 
dismal  and  forbidding.  Fred  felt  a  great  depression 
overwhelm  him. 

He  had  grown  accustomed  to  the  silence  of  the 
open  spaces,  but  this  silence  of  the  city  had  a 
portentous  quality  which  frightened  him.  It  re 
minded  him  of  that  ominous  quiet  that  had  settled 
down  on  Fairview  after  that  heartbreaking  cele 
bration  on  Christmas  Eve.  What  were  men  doing 
with  their  idle  moments  ?  How  were  they  escaping 
from  the  drab  to-day?  Did  the  crowded  lobbies 
of  the  sailors'  lodging  houses  spell  the  final  word  in 
the  bleak  entertainment  that  intolerance  had  left 
them?  Upon  one  of  the  street  corners  a  Salvation 
Army  lassie  harangued  an  indifferent  handful. 
But  there  seemed  nothing  now  from  which  to  save 
these  men  except  monotony,  and  religion  of  the 
fif e-and-drum  order  was  offering  only  a  very  dreary 
escape.  Did  the  moral  values  of  negative  virtue 
make  men  any  more  admirable?  he  found  himself 
wondering. 


216  BROKEN   TO   THE  PLOW 

Storch  led  the  way  in  silence.  Finally  they 
turned  up  toward  the  slopes  of  Rincon  Hill.  A 
cluster  of  shacks,  clinging  crazily  to  the  tawny 
banks,  loomed  ahead  in  the  darkness.  Storch 
clambered  along  a  beaten  trail  and  presently  he 
leaped  toward  the  broader  confines  of  a  street  which 
opened  its  arms  abruptly  to  receive  them.  Fred 
followed.  The  thoroughfare  upon  which  he  found 
himself  standing  was  little  more  than  a  lane, 
hedged  on  either  side  by  crazy  structures  that 
nearly  all  had  sprung  to  rambling  life  from  one- 
roomed  refugee  shacks  which  had  dotted  the  city 
after  the  fire  and  earthquake.  Most  of  them  were 
vine  clad  and  brightened  with  beds  of  scarlet 
geraniums,  but  the  house  before  which  Storch 
halted  rose  uncompromisingly  from  the  sun-baked 
ground  without  the  charity  of  a  covering.  Storch 
turned  the  key  and  threw  the  door  open,  motioning 
Fred  to  enter.  Fred  did  as  he  was  bidden  and 
found  himself  in  a  cluttered  room,  showing  harshly 
in  the  light  streaming  in  from  a  near-by  street 
lamp.  The  air  was  foul  with  stale  tobacco,  ref 
use,  and  imprisoned  odors  of  innumerable  greasy 
meals  and  the  sweaty  apparel  of  men  who  work 
with  their  hands. 

Storch  lighted  a  lamp.  A  tumble-down  couch 
stood  against  the  wall,  and  in  an  opposite  corner  a 
heap  of  tattered  quilts  had  been  flung  disdainfully. 
Tables  and  chairs  and  even  the  floor  were  piled 
with  papers  and  cheaply  covered  books  and  tat 
tered  magazines. 


BROKEN  TO   THE  PLOW  217 

S torch  pointed  to  the  couch.  "You  sleep  there 
to-night.  I'll  roll  up  on  the  floor." 

It  never  occurred  to  Fred  to  protest.  The  two 
began  to  shed  their  outer  garments.  Fred  crawled 
in  between  the  musty  quilts.  Storch  blew  out  the 
lamp,  and  Fred  saw  him  move  toward  the  quilts 
in  the  corner.  Without  bothering  to  straighten 
them  out  he  flung  himself  down  and  pulled  a 
covering  over  him.  The  light  from  the  street  lamp 
continued  to  flood  the  room.  Presently  Fred 
heard  Storch  chuckling. 

"So  you  know  Hilmer!"  he  was  repeating  again, 
making  a  sound  of  satisfaction,  as  one  does  over  a 
succulent  morsel.  "WellJ.  .  .  well  .  .  .  fancy  how 
things  turn  out!" 

Fred  made  no  reply,  and  after  a  time  a  gentle 
snoring  told  that  Storch  had  fallen  asleep. 

Fred  tossed  about,  oppressed  by  the  close  air. 
But,  in  the  end,  even  he  fell  into  a  series  of  fitful 
dozes.  He  dreamed  the  room  in  which  he  was 
sleeping  was  suddenly  transformed  into  a  huge 
spider  web  from  which  there  was  no  escape.  And 
he  caught  glimpses  of  Storch  himself  hanging  spider- 
wise  from  a  gossamer  thread,  spinning  dizzily  in 
midair.  .  .  .  He  awoke  repeatedly,  returning  as  often 
to  the  same  dream.  Toward  morning  he  heard  a 
faint  stirring  about.  But  he  lay  huddled  in  a 
pretense  of  sleep.  .  .  .  Finally  the  door  banged  and 
he  knew  that  Storch  had  left.  .  .  .  He  let  out  a 
profound  sigh  and  turned  his  face  from  the  light.  .  . . 


CHAPTER  XVII 

AX  7HEN  Fred  Starratt  awoke  a  noonday  sun 
*  *  was  flooding  in  at  the  single  window.  Con 
sciousness  brought  no  confusion  ...  he  was  begin 
ning  to  grow  accustomed  to  sudden  shifts  in  fortune 
and  strange  environments  had  long  since  ceased  to 
be  a  waking  novelty.  Outside  he  could  hear  the 
genial  noises  of  a  thickly  populated  lane — shrilly 
cried  bits  of  neighborhood  gossip  bandied  from  door 
step  to  doorstep  .  .  .  the  laughter  of  children  .  .  . 
the  call  of  a  junkman  .  .  .  even  a  smothered  cackling 
from  some  captive  hen  fulfilling  its  joyful  function 
in  spite  of  restraint.  He  did  not  rise  at  once,  but 
he  lay  there  thinking,  trying  to  force  the  realization 
that  he  was  again  in  San  Francisco.  .  .  .  He  won 
dered  dimly  at  the  power  of  the  homing  instinct 
that  had  driven  him  back.  It  was  plain  to  him 
now  that  almost  any  other  environment  would 
have  been  materially  better.  He  had  had  the 
whole  state  of  California  to  choose  from,  indeed  he 
might  have  flown  even  farther  afield.  But  from 
the  very  beginning  his  feet  had  turned  homeward 
with  uncanny  precision.  On  those  first  days  and 
nights  when  he  had  lain  huddled  in  any  uncertain 
shelter  that  came  to  hand  the  one  thought  that  had 
goaded  him  on  was  the  promise  of  this  return. 


BROKEN  TO   THE  PLOW  219 

And  those  first  hours  of  freedom  had  been  at  once 
the  sweetest  and  the  bitterest.  Wet  to  the  skin, 
starved,  furtive,  like  a  lean,  dog-harried  coyote 
he  had  achieved  the  mountains  and  safety  more 
dead  than  alive.  Looking  back,  he  could  see  that 
only  the  sheerest  madness  had  tempted  him  to 
flight  in  the  first  place.  Without  an  ounce  of 
provisions,  without  blankets,  at  the  start  lacking 
even  a  hat,  he  had,  defied  the  elements  and  won. 
God  was  indeed  tender  with  all  fools  and  madmen ! 
He  knew  now  that  under  ordinary  circumstances 
he  must  have  perished  in  the  mountain  passes. 
But  the  weather  had  been  warm  there  all  during 
December  and  more  rain  than  snow  had  fallen, 
keeping  the  beaten  paths  reasonably  open.  .  .  .  He 
had  thought  always  of  these  snow-pent  places  as 
quite  devoid  of  any  life  at  the  winter  season,  and 
he  was  amazed  to  find  how  many  human  beings 
burrowed  in  and  hibernated  during  the  storm 
bound  months.  Elsewhere,  the  skulking  traveler 
received  a  chary  welcome,  but  in  the  silent  fastness 
of  the  hills  latchstring  and  hearthstone  and  tobacco 
store  were  for  genial  sharing.  In  almost  any  one 
of  these  log  shelters  that  he  chanced  upon  he 
might  have  settled  himself  in  content  and  found 
an  indefinite  welcome,  but  the  urge  to  be  up  and  on 
sent  him  forward  to  the  next  rude  threshold.  Thus 
mountain  cabin  succeeded  mountain  cabin  until, 
presently,  one  day  Fred  Starratt  found  himself 
swinging  down  to  the  plains  again — to  the  broad- 
bosomed  valleys  lying  parched  and  expectant  under 


220  BROKEN   TO   THE  PLOW 

the  cruel  spell  of  drought.  Now  people  regarded 
him  suspiciously,  dogs  snapped  at  his  heels,  and 
farmers'  women  thrust  him  doles  of  food  through 
half-opened  kitchen  doors.  Here  and  there  he 
picked  up  a  stray  job  or  two.  But  he  was  plainly 
inefficient  for  most  tasks  assigned  him.  ...  In  the 
small  towns  there  were  not  enough  jobs  to  go  round 
.  .  .  young  men  were  returning  from  overseas  and 
dislodging  the  incompetents  who  had  achieved 
prosperity  because  of  the  labor  shortage.  The 
inland  cities  were  in  the  grip  of  strikes  .  .  .  there 
were  plenty  of  jobs,  but  few  with  the  temerity  to 
attempt  to  fill  them.  And,  besides,  what  had  Fred 
Starratt  to  offer  in  the  way  either  of  skill  or  brawn  ? 
.  .  .  He  grew  to  know  the  meaning  of  impotence. 
No,  he  was  a  creature  of  the  paved  streets,  and  to 
the  paved  streets  he  returned  as  swiftly  as  his  feet 
and  his  indifferent  fortune  could  carry  him.  Be 
sides,  he  had  grown  hungry  for  familiar  sights  and 
faces,  and  perhaps,  down  deep,  curiosity  had  been 
the  mainspring  of  his  return.  Even  bitter  ties 
have  a  pull  that  cannot  always  be  denied.  At 
Fairview  the  presence  of  Monet  had  held  him  almost 
a  willing  captive.  There  was  something  about  the 
flame  burning  in  that  almost  frail  body  that  had 
lighted  even  the  ugliness  of  Fairview  with  a  strange 
beauty.  He  could  not  think  of  him  as  dead. 
That  last  moment  had  been  too  tinged  with  the 
haunting  poetry  of  life.  How  often  he  had  recon 
structed  that  scene — the  gray,  sullen  rain  pattering 
on  the  spent  leaves,  the  quick-rushing  sound  of  a 


BROKEN   TO   THE  PLOW  221 

body  in  flight,  the  sudden  leap  of  a  soul  toward 
greater  freedom!  And  then  the  vision  of  the 
churning  pool  below  closing  in  triumphantly  as  it 
might  have  done  upon  some  reclaimed  pagan 
creature  that  had  tasted  the  bitter  wine  of  exile 
and  returned  in  leaping  joy  to  its  chosen  element! 
It  was  not  the  shock  and  sadness  of  death  that 
had  sent  Fred  Starratt  for  a  moment  stark  mad 
into  the  storm  and  freedom,  but  rather  an  ecstasy 
of  loneliness  ...  a  yearning  to  match  daring  with 
daring. 

And  now  he  was  home  again,  in  his  own  gray- 
green  city,  lying  beneath  tattered  quilts  in  a  hovel, 
with  the  selfsame  February  sun  that  had  once 
pricked  him  to  a  spiritual  adventure  flooding  in 
upon  him!  He  rose  and  threw  open  the  door. 
The  soft  noontide  air  floated  in,  displacing  the 
fetid  atmosphere.  He  looked  about  the  room 
searchingly.  In  the  daylight  it  seemed  even  more 
unkempt,  but  less  forbidding.  A  two-burner  kero 
sene  stove  stood  upon  an  empty  box  just  under  the 
window.  On  another  upturned  box  at  its  side  lay 
a  few  odds  and  ends  of  cooking  utensils,  shriveling 
bits  of  food,  a  plate  or  two.  He  found  a  loaf  of 
dry  bread  and  cut  a  slice  from  it.  This,  together 
with  a  glass  of  water,  completed  his  breakfast. 

He  tried  to  brush  his  weather-beaten  clothes  into 
decency  with  a  stump  of  a  whisk  broom  and  to  wipe 
the  dust  of  the  highroad  from  his  almost  spent 
shoes.  But,  somehow,  these  feeble  attempts  at 

gentility  seemed  to  increase  his  forlorn  appearance. 
15 


222  BROKEN   TO   THE  PLOW 

He  went  over  and  straightened  out  the  bedcover- 
ings.  At  least  he  would  leave  the  couch  in  some 
semblance  of  order.  What  did  Storch  expect  him 
to  do?  Come  back  again  for  shelter?  He  had  no 
plans,  but  as  he  went  out,  banging  the  door,  he 
felt  no  wish  to  return. 

His  first  thought  now  was  to  see  ,Ginger.  He 
went  to  the  Turk  Street  address.  He  found  a  huge 
frame  mansion  of  the  'eighties  converted  into  cheap 
lodgings.  The  landlady,  wearing  large  jet  and  gold 
ornaments,  eyed  him  suspiciously.  Miss  Molineaux 
no  longer  lived  there.  Her  present  address?  She 
had  left  none.  Thus  dismissed,  he  turned  his  steps 
toward  the  Kilmers'. 

He  had  expected  to  come  upon  the  vision  of  his 
wife  wheeling  Mrs.  Hilmer  up  and  down  the  side 
walk,  and  yet,  when  these  expectations  were  real 
ized,  he  experienced  a  shock.  There  she  was,  Helen 
Starratt,  in  a  black  dress  and  a  black  hat,  pacing 
with  drab  patience  the  full  length  of  the  block  and 
back  again.  He  could  not  get  a  good  view  of  her 
face  because  her  hat  shaded  her  eyes.  Mrs. 
Kilmer's  figure,  equally  indistinct,  was  a  shapeless 
mass  of  humanity.  A  child,  coming  out  of  a  near 
by  house  with  a  pair  of  roller  skates  in  her  hand, 
stood  off  and  answered  his  questions,  at  first 
reluctantly,  but  finally  with  the  importance  of 
encouraged  childhood.  .  .  .  Who  was  the  lady  in  the 
wheeled  chair?  Mrs.  Hilmer.  And  the  other  one 
in  black?  Her  name  was  Starratt.  No,  she  didn't 
know  her  very  well.  But  people  said  she  was  very 


BROKEN   TO   THE  PLOW  223 

sad.  She  dressed  in  black  and  looked  unhappy. 
Why?  Because  her  husband  was  dead.  No,  there 
was  no  mistake — 'she  had  heard  her  mother  say  so 
many  times — Mrs.  Starratt's  husband  was  dead, 
quite  dead!  .  .  . 

He  turned  back  toward  town.  Dead,  quite  dead! 
Well,  the  child  had  reckoned  better  than  she  knew ! 

He  retraced  his  steps  slowly,  resting  upon  many 
hospitable  doorsteps  that  afternoon.  The  noise 
of  the  city  confused  him,  the  stone  pavements  hurt 
his  ankles,  he  was  hungry  and  faint.  He  did  not 
know  what  to  do  or  where  to  go.  Only  one  shelter 
lay  open  to  him.  Should  he  go  back  to  Storch? 

Finally,  toward  five  o'clock,  he  found  himself 
standing  upon  the  corner  of  California  and  Mont 
gomery  streets,  watching  the  tide  of  office  work 
ers  flooding  homeward.  A  truant  animation  was 
flaming  them  briefly.  Familiar  face  after  familiar 
face  passed,  lighted  with  the  joy  of  sudden  release 
from  servitude.  Fred  Starratt  was  curiously  un 
moved.  He  had  fancied  that  he  would  feel  a  great 
yearning  toward  all  this  well-ordered  sanity.  He 
had  fancied  that  he  would  be  overwhelmed  with 
memories,  with  regrets,  with  futile  tears.  But  he 
knew  now  that  even  if  it  were  possible  to  re-enter 
the  world  in  which  he  had  once  moved  he  would 
refuse  scornfully.  Was  it  always  so  with  those 
who  achieved  death?  Ah  yes,  death  was  the  great 
progression,  one  never  re-entered  the  circle  of  life 
one  quitted.  Dead,  quite  dead!  Or,  as  Storch 
put  it,  "A  field  freshly  broken  to  the  plow!"  A 


224  BROKEN   TO   THE  PLOW 

field  awaiting  the  eternal  upspringing  and  the 
inevitable  harvest.  .  .  .  And  so  on,  again  and  again, 
to  the  end  of  time ! 

He  came  out  of  his  musings  with  a  renewed  sense 
of  faintness  and  the  realization  that  the  street  was 
rapidly  being  emptied  of  its  throng.  A  few 
stragglers  hurried  toward  the  ferry.  He  roused 
himself.  A  green-gold  light  was  enlivening  the 
west  and  giving  a  ghostly  unreality  to  the  street 
lamps  twinkling  in  a  premature  blossoming. 

He  was  turning  to  go  when  he  saw  a  familiar 
figure  coming  up  the  street.  He  looked  twice  to 
assure  himself  that  he  was  not  mistaken.  It  was 
Brauer ! 

He  stood  a  moment  longer,  roused  to  indifferent 
curiosity,  but,  as  Brauer  brushed  close,  a  sudden 
malevolent  hatred  shook  him.  He  squared  himself 
and  said  in  a  hoarse  tone: 

"I'm  starving.  ...  I  want  money  ...  to  eat!" 

Brauer  turned  a  face  of  amazed  and  insolent 
incredulity  toward  Fred. 

"Well,  you  won't  get  it  from  me!"  he  flung  back. 

Fred  Starratt  grasped  Brauer's  puny  wrist  in  a 
ferocious  grip. 

"Oh  yes,  I  will.  .  .  .  Do  you  know  who  I  am?" 

"You?  .  .  .  No.  ...  Let  me  go;  you're  hurting 
me!" 

"Look  at  me  closely!" 

"I  tell  you  I  don't  know  you.     Are  you  crazy?" 

"Perhaps.  ...  I've  been  in  an  insane  asylum.  .  .  . 
Now  do  you  know  who  I  am? " 


BROKEN   TO   THE  PLOW  225 

Brauer  fell  back.  "No,"  he  breathed:  "it  can't 
be  possible!  Fred  Starratt  is  dead." 

Fred  began  to  laugh.  "You're  right.  But  I 
want  something  to  eat  just  the  same.  You're 
going  to  take  me  into  Hjul's  .  .  .  and  buy  me  a  meal. 
.  .  .  And  after  I've  eaten  perhaps  you'll  hear  how  I 
died  and  who  killed  me." 

He  could  feel  Brauer  trembling  in  his  grasp.  A 
rising  cruelty  overwhelmed  him.  He  flung  Brauer 
from  him  with  a  gesture  of  contempt. 

"Are  we  going  to  eat?"  he  asked,  coldly. 

"Yes  .  .  .  whatever  you  say." 

Fred  nodded  and  together  the  two  drifted  down 
Montgomery  Street. 

Sitting  over  a  generous  platter  of  pot  roast  and 
spaghetti  at  Hjul's,  with  Brauer's  pallid  face  staring 
up  at  him,  Fred  Starratt  had  the  realization  that 
there  was  at  least  one  mouselike  human  to  whom 
he  could  play  the  role  of  cat. 

Brauer  did  not  need  to  be  prodded  to  speech. 
He  told  everything  with  the  eagerness  of  a  child 
caught  in  a  fault  and  seeking  to  curry  the  favor  of 
his  questioner.  He  and  Kendricks  were  placing  all 
the  Hilmer  insurance.  Yes,  they  were  rebating — 
that  went  without  saying.  And  what  else  lay  at  the 
bottom  of  Kilmer's  generosity?  Fred  Starratt  put 
the  question  insinuatingly.  Ah  yes,  the  little 
matter  of  standing  by  when  Starratt  had  been  sent 
to  Fairview.  No,  Hilmer  had  made  no  demand, 
but  he  had  advised  Brauer  to  be  firm — through  his 


226  BROKEN   TO   THE  PLOW 

lawyer,  of  course  ...  a  hint,  nothing  more — that 
some  sort  of  example  should  be  made  of  men  who  . . . 
Yes,  that  was  just  as  it  had  happened. 

"And  you  knew  where  they  were  sending  me?" 
Fred  was  moved  to  demand,  harshly. 

"Well .  .  .  yes.  .  .  .  But  Hilmer's  lawyer  put  it  so 
convincingly.  .  .  .  Everything  was  to  be  for  the 
best." 

"Including  your  share  in  the  Hilmer  business?" 

Brauer  had  the  grace  to  wince.  "Well,  there 
was  nothing  said  absolutely." 

"And  what  did  you  figure  was  Hilmer's  rea 
son  for  ...  well,  wanting  me  to  summer  at 
Fairview?" 

Brauer  toyed  with  a  spoon.  "There  could  only 
be  one  reason." 

"Don't  be  afraid.     You  mean  that  my  wife  ..." 

"Yes...  just  that!" 

Fred  Starratt  had  a  sense  that  he  should  have 
been  stirred  to  anger,  but  instead  a  great  pity 
swept  him,  pity  for  a  human  being  who  could  sell 
another  so  shamelessly  and  not  have  the  grace  to 
deny  it.  Yes,  he  realized  now  that  there  were 
times  when  a  lie  was  the  most  self-respecting  and 
admirable  thing  in  the  world. 

' '  It  appears  that  I  am  dead  also.  I  saw  my  wife 
to-day  mourning  for  me  in  the  most  respectable  of 
weeds." 

' '  Your  hat,  you  see — it  was  found  in  the  water . . . 
not  far  from  the  dead  body  of  your  friend.  .  .  . 
Naturally  ..." 


BROKEN  TO  THE  PLOW  227 

"Yes,  naturally,  the  wish  was  father  to  the 
thought.  Just  so!" 

And  with  that  Fred  Starratt  laughed  so  un 
pleasantly  that  Brauer  shivered  and  his  face 
reddened. 

By  this  time  Fred  Starratt  had  finished  eating. 
Brauer  paid  the  check  and  the  two  departed.  At 
the  first  street  corner  Brauer  attempted  to  slip  a 
five-dollar  bill  into  Starratt's  hand.  He  refused 
scornfully. 

"Money?  I  don't  want  your  money.  There  is 
only  one  thing  that  will  buy  my  good  will — your 
silence.  Do  you  understand  what  I  mean?  .  .  . 
I'm  not  the  same  man  you  tricked  last  July. 
Then  I  thought  I  had  everything  to  lose.  Now 
I  know  that  no  one  ever  loses  anything.  .  .  .  You 
don't  understand  me,  do  you?  .  .  .  Oh,  well,  it 
doesn't  matter." 

Brauer 's  frightened  lips  scarcely  moved  as  he 
asked : 

' '  Where  are  you  staying  ? " 

"Anywhere  I  can  find  a  shelter.  .  .  .  Last  night 
I  spent  with  an  anarchist.  ...  I  think  he'd  blow  up 
almost  anyone  for  just  the  sheer  joy  of  it." 

Brauer  shuddered.  "Where  will  you  spend 
to-night?" 

"I  think  I'll  go  back  to  the  same  place.  .  .  .  This 
morning  I  was  undecided.  But  I've  heard  a  lot  of 
things  since  then.  ...  I'm  taking  an  interest  in  life 
again.  .  .  .  By  the  way,  the  man  I'm  staying  with 
knows  Hilmer.  .  .  .  And  I  don't  think  he  likes  him, 


228  BROKEN   TO   THE  PLOW 

either.  ...  I'll  give  you  one  tip,  Brauer.  Never 
get  an  anarchist  sore  at  you.  .  .  .  They  haven't 
anything  to  lose,  either." 

He  had  never  seen  such  pallor  as  that  which 
shook  the  color  from  Brauer's  face.  He  decided 
not  to  torment  him  further. 

He  had  established  a  sense  of  the  unfathomable 
for  the  present  and  future  terror  of  his  trembling 
little  ex-partner.  His  revenge,  so  far  as  Brauer 
was  concerned,  was  complete.  He  had  not  the 
slightest  wish  to  see  Brauer  again. 

He  let  his  hands  close  once  more  tightly  about 
Brauer's  puny  wrists. 

"Remember  .  .  .  you  have  not  seen  me.  Do  you 
understand?" 

"Yes." 

"Not  a  living  soul .  .  .  you  are  not  to  even  suggest 
that  .  .  .  otherwise  .  .  .  well,  I  am  living  with  an 
anarchist,  and  a  word  to  the  wise  ..." 

He  turned  abruptly  and  left  his  companion  stand 
ing  on  the  street  corner,  staring  vacantly  after  him. 

Instinctively  his  footsteps  found  their  way  to 
Storch's  shack.  A  light  was  glimmering  inside. 
Fred  beat  upon  the  door.  It  swung  open  quickly, 
revealing  Storch's  greenish  teeth  bared  in  a  wide 
smile  of  satisfaction. 

"Come  in  ...  come  in!"  Storch  cried  out,  gayly. 
* '  Have  a  good  day  ? ' ' 

"Excellent!"  Fred  snapped  back,  venomously. 
"I  learned,  among  other  things,  that  I  am  legally 
dead." 


BROKEN  TO   THE  PLOW  229 

Storch  rubbed  his  hands  together  in  satisfaction. 
"A  clean  slate!  Do  you  realize  how  wonderful 
it  is,  my  man,  to  start  fresh?" 

Fred  threw  himself  into  a  chair.  He  felt  tired. 
Sharp,  darting  pains  were  stabbing  his  eyes. 

* ' I  think  I'm  going  to  be  ill ! "  he  said,  with  sudden 
irrelevance. 

Storch  lighted  the  oil  stove.  "Crawl  into  bed 
and  I'll  get  you  something  hot  to  drink! " 

S torch's  tone  was  kind  to  a  point  of  softness, 
and  yet,  later,  when  he  bent  over  the  couch  with  a 
steaming  glass  in  his  hand  Fred  experienced  a  sharp 
revulsion. 

"I  dreamed  all  last  night,"  Fred  said,  almost 
defiantly,  "that  this  room  was  a  cobweb  and  that 
you  were  a  huge  spider,  dangling  on  a  thread." 

"And  you  were  the  fly,  I  suppose,"  Storch 
replied,  sneeringly. 

The  next  instant  he  had  touched  Fred's  forehead 
gently,  almost  tenderly,  but  his  eyes  glittered  be 
neath  their  shaggy  brows  with  an  insane  ferocity. 
.  .  .  Fred  took  the  glass.  He  was  too  ill  to  care 
much  one  way  or  the  other. 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

JVTEXT  morning  Fred  Starratt  knew  that  he  was 
^  ^  too  ill  to  rise.  Then  everything  became  hazy. 
He  had  moments  of  consciousness  when  he  sensed 
Storch's  figure  moving  in  a  sort  of  mist,  flashing  a 
green  smile  through  the  gloom.  He  saw  other 
figures,  too — Helen  Starratt,  swathed  in  clinging 
black;  Hilmer,  displaying  his  mangled  thumb; 
Monet  with  eyes  of  gentle  reproach;  and  Ginger, 
very  vague  and  very  wistful.  There  were  times 
when  the  room  seemed  crowded  with  strange  people 
who  came  and  went  and  gesticulated,  people  gather 
ing  close  to  the  dim  lamp  which  Storch  lighted  at 
nightfall. 

The  visions  of  Monet  were  a  curious  mixture  of 
shadow  and  reality.  Sometimes  he  seemed  very 
elusive,  but,  again,  his  face  would  grow  clear  to 
the  point  of  dazzling  brightness.  At  such  moments 
Fred  would  screen  his  eyes  and  turn  away,  only 
in  the  end  to  catch  a  melting  glimpse  of  Monet 
fading  gradually  with  a  gesture  of  resignation  and 
regret.  But  slowly  the  outlines  of  Monet  grew 
less  and  less  tangible  and  the  personality  of  Storch 
more  and  more  shot  through  with  warm-breathed 
vitality,  and  the  strange  company  that  gathered 
at  dusk  about  the  lamp  became  living  things  instead 
of  shadows.  Yet  it  took  him  some  time  to  realize 


BROKEN   TO   THE  PLOW  231 

that   these   nightly   gatherings   at   Storch's   were 
composed  of  real  flesh  and  blood. 

At  first  he  was  content  to  lie  in  a  drowse  and 
listen  to  the  incoherent  babblings  of  these  noc 
turnal  visitors,  but,  as  he  grew  stronger,  detached 
bits  of  conversation  began  to  impress  themselves 
upon  him.  These  people  had  each  some  pet  griev 
ance  and  it  remained  for  Storch  to  pick  upon  the 
strings  of  their  discontents  with  unerring  accuracy. 
At  about  eight  o'clock  every  night  the  first  strag 
glers  would  drift  in,  reinforced  by  a  steady  stream, 
until  midnight  saw  a  room  stuffed  with  sweating 
humanity  releasing  their  emotions  in  a  biting  flood 
of  protests.  They  protested  at  everything  under 
the  sun — at  custom,  at  order,  at  work,  at  play,  at 
love,  at  life  itself.  And  Storch,  for  the  most  part 
silent,  would  sit  with  folded  arms,  puffing  at  his 
pipe,  a  suggestion  of  genial  malice  on  his  face, 
throwing  out  a  phrase  here  and  there  that  set  the 
pack  about  him  leaping  like  hungry  dogs  to  the 
lure  of  food.  In  confused  moments  Fred  Starratt 
fell  to  wondering  whether  he  really  had  escaped 
from  Fairview,  whether  the  forms  about  him  were 
not  the  same  motley  assembly  that  used  to  gather 
in  the  open  and  exchange  whines.  The  wails  now 
seemed  keyed  to  howls  of  defiance,  but  the  source 
was  essentially  the  same. 

Fred  wondered  how  he  lived  through  these  dread 
ful  evenings  with  the  air  thick  to  choking.  Indeed, 
he  used  to  wonder  what  had  saved  him  from  death 
at  any  stage  of  the  game.  Storch  had  permitted 


23 2  BROKEN   TO   THE  PLOW 

him  the  use  of  a  maggoty  couch,  had  shared  scraps 
of  indifferent  food  at  irregular  intervals,  and  set  a 
cracked  pitcher  of  water  within  reach.  But 
beyond  that,  he  had  been  ignored.  The  nightly 
assembly  did  not  even  cast  their  glances  his  way. 
During  the  day  Fred  was  left  alone  for  the  most 
part,  and  he  felt  a  certain  luxury  in  this  personal 
solitude  after  the  months  at  Fairview  with  its 
unescapable  human  contacts.  He  would  lie  there, 
his  ears  still  ringing  with  the  echoes  from  the 
nightly  gathering  of  malcontents,  trying  to  recon 
struct  his  own  quarrel  with  life.  He  had  a  feeling 
that  he  would  remain  a  silent  onlooker  only  until 
Storch  decreed  otherwise.  If  he  stayed  long 
enough  the  night  would  come  when  Storch  would 
call  upon  him  for  a  testimonial  of  hatred.  He  knew 
that  deep  down  somewhere  within  him  rancors 
were  stirring  to  sinister  life.  He  had  experienced 
the  first  glimmerings  of  cruelty  in  that  moment  when 
he  had  felt  Brauer  tremble  under  his  grasp.  What 
would  have  been  his  reaction  to  physical  fear  on 
Helen  Starratt's  part?  Suppose  on  that  afternoon 
when  he  had  watched  her  wheeling  Mrs.  Hilmer 
up  and  down  with  deceitful  patience  he  had  gone 
over  and  struck  her  the  blow  which  was  primitively 
her  portion?  Would  the  sight  cf  her  whimpering 
fear  have  stirred  him  to  further  elemental  cruelties  ? 
Would  he  have  ended  by  killing  her?  .  .  .  Physically 
weak  as  he  was,  he  could  still  feel  the  thrill  of 
cruelty  that  had  shaken  him  at  the  realization  of 
Brauer's  dismay.  As  a  child,  when  a  truant  gust 


BROKEN   TO   THE  PLOW  233 

of  deviltry  ha.d  swept  him,  he  had  felt  the  same 
satisfaction  in  pummeling  a  comrade  who  backed 
away  from  friendly  cuffs  turned  instantly  to  blows 
of  malice.  Even  now  he  had  occasionally  a  desire 
to  seek  out  Brauer  again  and  worry  him  further. 
He  was  fearing  indifference.  What  if,  after  all 
that  he  had  suffered  at  the  hands  of  others,  he 
should  find  himself  in  the  pale  clutch  of  an  impotent 
indifference?  He  felt  a  certain  shame  back  of  the 
possibility,  and  at  such  moments  the  words  of 
Storch  used  to  ring  in  his  ears : 

"  Wounds  heal  so  quickly  ...  so  disgustingly 
quickly!" 

And  again,  watching  Storch  at  night,  touching 
the  quivering  cords  which  might  otherwise  have 
rusted  in  inactive  silence,  he  remembered  further 
the  introduction  to  this  contemptuous  phrase: 

1  'I  like  to  get  my  recruits  when  they're  bleeding 
raw.  I  like  them  when  the  salt  of  truth  can  sting 
deep " 

How  Storch  lived  Fred  could  only  guess.  But  he 
managed  always  to  jingle  a  silver  coin  or  two  and 
keep  a  crust  of  bread  in  the  house.  His  fare  was 
frugal  to  the  point  of  being  ascetic.  Once  or  twice, 
as  if  moved  by  Fred's  physical  weakness,  he 
brought  some  scraps  of  beef  home  and  brewed  a 
few  cups  of  steaming  bouillon,  and  again,  one 
Sunday  morning  he  went  out  and  bought  a  half 
dozen  eggs  which  he  converted  into  an  impossibly 
tough  omelet.  But  for  the  most  part  he  lived 
on  coffee  and  fresh  French  bread  and  cheese.  It 


234  BROKEN   TO   THE  PLOW 

was  on  this  incredible  fare  that  Fred  Starratt  won 
back  his  strength.  His  exhaustion  was  an  exhaus 
tion  of  the  spirit,  and  food  seemed  to  have  little 
part  in  either  his  disorder  or  his  recovery. 

Whatever  S torch's  specific  grievance  with  life, 
he  never  voiced  it  and  in  this  he  won  Fred's  ad 
miration.  He  liked  to  jangle  the  discordant  pas 
sions  of  others,  but  his  own  he  muffled  into  com 
plete  silence.  He  had  worked  at  almost  every 
known  calling.  It  seemed  that  he  came  and  dis 
appeared  always  as  suddenly  and  in  his  wake  a 
furrow  of  men  harrowed  to  supreme  unrest  yielded 
up  a  harvest  sown  of  dragon's  teeth.  He  was  an 
idea  made  flesh,  patient,  relentless,  almost  in 
tangible.  He  flashed  upon  new  horizons  like  a 
cloud  from  the  south  and  he  vanished  as  completely 
once  he  had  revived  hatred  with  his  insinuating 
showers.  He  was,  as  he  had  said  on  that  first 
meeting  with  Fred,  a  fanatic,  a  high  priest.  He 
called  many,  but  he  chose  few. 

One  night  after  the  others  had  left  Fred  said  to 
him: 

' l  Do  you  realize  what  you  are  doing  ? .  .  .  You  are 
working  up  these  men  to  a  frenzy.  Some  morning 
we  shall  wake  to  find  murder  done." 

"How  quickly  you  are  learning,"  Storch  an 
swered,  flinging  his  coat  aside. 

"Are  you  fair?"  Fred  went  on,  passionately. 
"If  you  have  your  convictions,  why  not  risk  your 
own  hide  to  prove  them?  Why  make  cats'-paws 
of  the  others?" 


BROKEN   TO   THE  PLOW  235 

Storch  took  out  his  pipe  and  lighted  it  de 
liberately.  "  Prospective  martyrs  are  as  plentiful 
as  fish  in  a  net/'  he  answered.  "Of  what  good  is 
the  sea's  yield  without  fishermen?  ...  I  sacrifice 
myself  and  who  takes  my  place?  Will  you? " 

Fred  turned  on  him  suddenly.  "You  are  not 
training  me  to  be  your  successor,  I  hope,"  he  said, 
with  a  slight  sneer.  "Because  I  lie  here  without 
protest  is  no  reason  that  I  approve.  Indeed,  I 
wonder  sometimes  if  I  do  quite  right  to  permit  all 
this.  .  .  .  There  are  authorities,  you  know." 

Storch  looked  at  him  steadily.  "The  door  is 
open,  my  friend." 

Fred  gave  a  little  gesture  of  resignation. 

"You  know  perfectly  well  that  I'm  not  built  to 
betray  the  man  who  gives  me  shelter." 

"Oh,  I'm  not  sheltering  you  for  love!" 

"You  have  some  purpose,  of  course.  I  under 
stand  that.  But  you're  wasting  time." 

"Well,  I'll  risk  it.  ...  I  know  well  enough  you're 
not  a  man  easily  won  to  an  abstract  hatred.  .  .  . 
But  a  personal  hatred  very  often  serves  as  good  a 
turn.  .  .  .Everything  is  grist  to  my  mill." 

"A  personal  hatred?"  echoed  Fred. 

Storch  blew  out  the  light. 

"You're  duller  than  I  thought,"  he  called  through 
the  gloom. 

Fred  turned  his  face  away  and  tried  to  sleep. 

The  next  day  he  decided  to  crawl  out  of  bed 
and  begin  to  win  back  his  strength.  He  couldn't 


236  BROKEN   TO   THE  PLOW 

lie  there  forever  sharing  S torch's  roof  and  crust. 
But  the  effort  left  him  exhausted  and  he  was  soon 
glad  to  fling  himself  back  upon  the  couch. 

Each  succeeding  day  he  felt  a  little  stronger,  until 
the  time  came  when  he  was  able  to  drag  himself 
to  the  open  door  and  sit  in  the  sunshine.  He  had 
never  thought  much  about  sunshine  in  the  old  days. 
A  fine  day  had  been  something  to  be  remarked, 
but  scarcely  hoarded.  With  the  steam  radiator 
working,  it  had  not  mattered  so  much  whether  the 
sun  shone  or  not.  ...  He  remembered  the  first  time 
that  a  real  sense  of  the  sun's  beauty  had  struck 
him — -on  that  morning  which  now  seemed  so  remote 
— when  he  had  risen  weakly  from  his  cot  at  the 
detention  hospital  and  made  ready  for  exile  at 
Fairview.  Less  than  a  year  ago!  How  many 
things  had  assumed  new  values  since  then!  Now, 
he  could  exploit  every  sunbeam  to  its  minutest 
warmth,  he  could  wring  sustenance  from  a  handful 
of  crumbs,  he  knew  what  a  cup  of  cold  water  meant. 
He  was  on  speaking  terms  with  hunger,  he  had  been 
comrade  to  madness,  he  had  looked  upon  sudden 
death,  he  was  an  outcast  and,  in  a  sense,  a  criminal. 
He  felt  that  he  could  almost  say  with  Hilmer: 

"I  know  all  the  dirty,  rotten  things  of  life  by 
direct  contact." 

All  but  murder — yet  it  had  brushed  close  to  him. 
Even  now  he  could  evoke  the  choking  rage  that 
had  engulfed  him  on  that  night  of  his  arrest  when 
his  defenseless  cheek  had  reddened  to  the  blow 
of  humiliation.  This  had  been,  however,  a  flash 


BROKEN   TO   THE  PLOW  237 

of  passion.  But  once,  meeting  a  man  who  blocked 
his  path  in  the  first  upper  reaches  of  the  hills, 
beyond  Fairview,  he  had  felt  the  even  more  primi 
tive  itch  of  self-preservation  urging  him  to  the 
ultimate  crime.  Would  he  end  by  going  a  step 
farther  and  planning  the  destruction  of  life  in  cold 
blood? 

It  was  curious  how  constant  association  with  a 
sensational  idea  dulled  the  edge  of  its  novelty. 
The  first  time  he  had  heard  deliberate  and  passion 
less  murder  all  but  plotted  in  S torch's  huddled 
room  he  had  felt  a  quick  heartbeat  of  instinctive 
protest.  Had  he  been  stronger  at  that  moment 
he  would  have  leaped  to  his  feet  in  opposition.  But 
the  moment  passed  and  when  he  heard  the  subject 
broached  again  he  listened  curiously.  Finally  he 
ceased  to  feel  the  slightest  tremor  of  revolt.  Was 
indifference  always  the  first  step  toward  surrender? 

Finally  Fred  grew  strong  enough  to  desert  his 
couch  at  evening.  Up  to  this  point  he  had  been 
ignored  by  the  nightly  visitors,  but  now  they 
made  a  place  for  him  in  the  circle  about  the  sputter 
ing  lamp.  It  seemed,  also,  that,  with  his  active 
presence,  the  talk  began  to  assume  general  point 
and  direction.  Storch  had  been  giving  them  plenty 
of  tether,  but  now  he  was  beginning  to  pull  up 
sharply,  putting  their  windy  theories  to  the  test. 
They  were  for  clearing  the  ground,  were  they? 
Well,  so  far  so  good.  But  generalities  led  nowhere. 
Why  not  something  specific?  Wasn't  the  time  ripe 
for  action — thousands  of  men,  walking  the  streets, 

16 


238  BROKEN   TO   THE  PLOW 

locked  out  because  they  dared  to  demand  a  decent 
and  even  break?  And  this  in  the  face  of  all  the 
altruistic  rumble-bumble  which  war  had  evoked? 
He  played  this  theme  over  and  over  again,  and 
finally  one  night  with  an  almost  casual  air  he 
said: 

"Take  the  shipyards,  for  instance  .  .  .  forty-odd 
thousand  men  locked  out  while  the  owners  lay 
plans  to  shackle  them  further.  Now  is  the  chance. 
Quit  talking  and  get  busy!'* 

It  ended  in  a  list  being  made  of  the  chief  offenders 
— owners,  managers,  irascible  foremen.  Fred  Star- 
ratt  listened  like  a  man  in  a  dream.  When  Hilmer 
was  named  he  found  himself  shivering.  These 
people  were  plotting  murder  now — cool,  calm,  pas 
sionless  murder!  There  was  something  fascinating 
in  the  very  nonchalance  of  it. 

Storch's  eyes  glittered  more  and  more  savagely. 
He  drew  up  plans,  arranged  incredible  details,  de 
livered  specific  offenders  into  the  hands  of  certain 
of  his  henchmen. 

"You  are  responsible  for  this  man,  now,"  he 
used  to  fling  at  the  chosen  one.  "How  or  where 
or  when  does  not  interest  me — but  get  him,  you 
understand,  get  him!" 

One  night  a  member  said,  significantly: 

"Everybody's  been  picked  but  Hilmer.  .  .  . 
What's  the  matter,  Storch,  are  you  saving  that 
plum  for  yourself?" 

Storch  rubbed  his  hands  together,  flashing  a  look 
at  Fred. 


BROKEN   TO   THE  PLOW  239 

"No.  .  .  .  There's  an  option  on  Hilmer!"  lie  cried, 
gleefully. 

Fred  tried  to  ignore  the  implication,  but  all 
night  the  suggestion  burned  itself  into  his  brain. 
So  some  one  was  to  get  Hilmer,  after  all!  Well, 
why  not?  Hilmer  liked  men  with  guts  enough  to 
fight — rabbit  drives  were  not  to  his  taste.  .  .  , 
Among  all  the  names  brought  up  and  discussed  at 
these  sinister  gatherings  about  Storch's  round  table 
Kilmer's  stood  out  as  the  ultimate  prize.  No  one 
spoke  a  good  word  for  him  and  yet  Fred  had  to 
admit  that  the  revilings  were  flavored  with  a  cer 
tain  grudging  respect.  He  was  an  open  and  con 
sistent  tyrant,  at  any  rate. 

An  option  on  Hilmer!  What  a  trick  Storch  had 
for  illuminating  phrases!  .  .  .  And  his  divinations 
were  uncanny.  Why  should  he  assume  that 
Hilmer  was  in  any  way  bound  up  in  Fred  Starratt's 
life? 

The  next  morning  Fred  decided  to  chance  a  walk 
in  the  open.  He  had  a  vague  wish  to  try  his  wings 
again,  now  that  he  had  grown  stronger.  The  situa 
tion  reminded  him  remotely  of  Fairview  on  those 
first  days  when  Monet  and  he  had  attempted  to 
harden  their  muscles  against  the  day  of  escape. 
But  this  time  he  was  struggling  to  free  himself  from 
a  personality,  from  an  idea.  He  must  leave  Storch 
and  his  motley  brood  as  soon  as  possible ;  somehow 
the  acid  of  their  ruthless  philosophy  was  eating 
away  the  remnants  of  any  inner  beauty  which 
had  been  left  him.  At  first  he  had  been  all  revolt, 


24o  BROKEN   TO   THE  PLOW 

but  now  there  were  swift  moments  in  which  he 
asked  himself  what  quarrel  he  could  have  with 
any  blows  struck  at  authority.  What  had  estab 
lished  order  done  for  him?  Acted  as  a  screen  for 
villainy  and  inconstancy  for  the  most  part. 

He  turned  all  this  over  in  his  mind  as  he  slunk 
furtively  along  the  water  front,  trying  vaguely  to 
shape  a  plan  of  action.  He  felt  himself  to  be  a  very 
unusual  and  almost  terrible  figure,  and  yet  no  one 
paid  any  heed  to  him.  His  beard  had  lost  its 
sunburned  character  and  grown  jet  black,  his  face, 
and  particularly  his  hands,  were  pale  to  trans 
parence,  his  eyes  burned  too  brightly  in  their  sunken 
sockets.  He  was  not  even  a  ghost  of  his  former 
self,  but  rather  a  sinister  reincarnation.  He  felt 
that  he  was  even  more  forbidding  than  on  that 
night  when  he  had  sent  Brauer  shivering  from  his 
presence.  He  doubted  whether  Brauer  would 
recognize  him  again,  so  subtle  and  marked  was  the 
change.  He  hardly  recognized  himself,  and  the 
transformation  was  not  solely  a  matter  of  physical 
degeneration.  No,  there  was  something  indefinable 
in  the  quality  of  his  decline. 

He  fluttered  about  the  town,  at  first  aimlessly, 
like  a  defenseless  fledgling  thrust  before  its  time 
from  the  nest.  He  was  weak  and  tremulous  and 
utterly  miserable.  Yet  he  felt  compelled  to  go 
forward.  He  must  escape  from  Storch!  He  must! 

The  docks,  usually  full  of  bustle,  were  silent  and 
almost  deserted.  Fred  questioned  a  man  loafing 
upon  a  pile  of  lumber.  It  appeared  that  a  strike 


BROKEN   TO   THE  PLOW  241 

of  stevedores  was  the  cause  of  this  outward  sign  of 
inactivity.  Boats  were  being  loaded  quietly,  but 
the  process  was  furtive  and  sullen.  Occasionally, 
out  of  the  wide  expanse  of  brooding  indolence  a 
knot  of  men  would  gather  flockwise,  and  melt  as 
quickly.  There  was  an  ominous  quality  in  the 
swiftness  with  which  these  cloudlike  groups  con 
gealed  and  disintegrated.  The  sinister  blight  of 
repression  was  over  everything — repressed  desires, 
repressed  joys,  repressed  hatreds.  It  was  almost 
as  sad  as  the  noonday  silence  of  Fairview. 

Fred  slunk  along  in  deep  dejection.  He  wanted 
the  color  and  life  and  bustle  of  accomplishment. 
A  slight  activity  before  one  of  the  docks  beguiled 
him  from  his  depression.  A  passenger  steamer  was 
preparing  for  its  appointed  flight  south  and  a  knot 
of  blue-coated  policemen  maintained  a  safe  path 
from  curb  to  dock  entrance.  Here  was  a  touch  of 
liveliness  and  gayety — the  released  laughter  of 
people  bent  on  a  holiday,  hopeful  farewells  called 
out  heartily,  taxicabs  dashing  up  with  exag 
gerated  haste.  He  was  warming  himself  at  the 
flame  of  this  genial  pageant,  when  an  opulent  ma 
chine  came  rolling  up  to  the  curb.  A  sudden 
surge  of  arrivals  had  pressed  into  service  every 
available  porter,  and  the  alighting  occupants,  a  man 
and  a  woman,  stood  waiting  for  some  one  to  help 
them  with  their  luggage.  Fred  stared  with  im 
personal  curiosity.  Then,  as  instinctively,  he  fell 
back.  The  man  was  Axel  Hilmer  and  the  woman 
was  Helen  Starratt!  His  shrinking  movement 


242  BROKEN   TO   THE  PLOW 

must  have  singled  him  out  for  attention,  because  a 
policeman  began  to  hustle  him  on,  and  the  next 
instant  he  was  conscious  that  Hilmer  was  calling 
in  his  voice  of  assured  authority : 

' '  Here,  there,  don't  send  that  man  away !  I  need 
some  one  to  help  me  with  these  grips.  This  lady 
has  got  to  catch  the  boat!" 

The  officer  touched  his  hat  respectfully  and  Fred 
felt  himself  gently  impelled  toward  Helen  Starratt. 
He  did  not  have  time  to  protest  nor  shape  any  plan 
of  action.  Instead,  he  answered  Kilmer's  im 
perious  pantomime  by  grasping  a  suitcase  in  one 
hand  and  a  valise  in  the  other  and  staggering  after 
them  toward  the  waiting  vessel. 

They  had  arrived  not  a  moment  too  soon;  al 
ready  the  steamer  was  preparing  to  cast  off. 
In  the  confusion  which  followed,  Fred  had  very 
little  sense  of  what  was  happening.  He  knew 
that  a  porter  had  relieved  him  of  his  burden  and 
that  Helen  Starratt  had  pressed  a  silver  coin  into 
his  hand.  There  was  a  scramble  up  the  gang 
plank,  a  warning  whistle,  a  chorus  of  farewell,  and 
then  silence.  ...  He  had  a  realization  that  he  had  all 
but  fainted — he  looked  up  to  find  Hilmer  at  his  side. 

"What's  the  matter?"  Hilmer  was  asking, 
brusquely.  "Are  you  sick?" 

He  roused  himself  with  a  mighty  effort. 

"Yes." 

"You  look  half  starved,  too.  .  .  .  Why  don't  you 
go  to  work?  Or  are  you  one  of  those  damned 
strikers?" 


BROKEN  TO   THE  PLOW  243 

"No,"  he  heard  himself  answer.  "I'm  just  a 
man  who's  .  .  .  who's  up  against  it." 

Hilmer  took  out  a  card  and  scribbled  on  it. 

"Here,  look  up  my  superintendent  at  the  yard 
to-morrow.  He'll  give  you  a  job.  There's  plenty 
of  work  for  those  who  want  it.  But  don't  lose 
that  card  .  .  .  otherwise  they  won't  let  you  see 
him." 

Fred  took  the  proffered  pasteboard  and  as  he  did 
so  his  ringers  closed  over  Kilmer's  mangled  thumb. 
He  could  feel  himself  trembling  from  head  to  foot. 
.  .  .  He  waited  until  Hilmer  was  gone.  Then  he 
crawled  slowly  in  the  direction  of  the  street  again. 
Midway  he  felt  some  force  impelling  him  to  a  back 
ward  glance.  He  turned  about — a  green  smile 
betrayed  Storch's  sinister  presence;  Fred  felt  him 
swing  close  and  whisper,  triumphantly : 

"That  was  your  wife,  wasn't  it?" 

"How  do  you  know? " 

"Never  mind.     Answer  me — it  was  your  wife?" 

"Yes." 

"How  much  did  she  give  you?" 

Fred  looked  down  at  the  coin  in  his  hand. 

"Fifty  cents." 

"Fifty  cents  ...  for  carrying  two  grips  a  hundred 
yards. .  . .  Well,  she  must  have  money.  .  .  .  And  she's 
taking  a  little  trip  south — for  her  health,  I  sup 
pose!  ...  I  wonder  when  friend  Hilmer  will  follow? " 

Fred  tried  to  draw  away,  but  Storch's  insinuat 
ing  clutch  was  too  firm. 

"Let  me  go!"   he  half  begged  and  half  com- 


244  BROKEN   TO   THE  PLOW 

manded.     "What  business  is  all  this  of  yours?  .  .  . 
Who  has  told  you  all  this  about  me?" 

Storch  continued  to  hang  upon  Fred's  arm. 
"You  told  me  yourself." 

"I  told  you?    When?" 

"You  were  delirious  for  a  good  week.  .  .  .  Don't 
you  suppose  you  babbled  then?" 

"How  much  do  you  know?" 

"Nearly  everything,  Fred  Starr att!  Nearly  ev 
erything." 

' '  Even  my  name ! ' ' 

"Yes,  even  that." 

Fred  stood  still  for  a  moment  and  he  closed  both 
his  eyes. 

"Let's  go  home!"  he  said,  hopelessly. 

He  heard  Storch 's  malevolent  chuckle  answering 
him. 

When  they  arrived  at  S  torch's  shack  Fred  was 
exhausted.  He  threw  himself  at  once  upon  the 
couch,  drawing  the  tattered  quilts  over  his  head, 
and  thus  he  lay  all  night  in  a  semistupor.  He 
heard  the  nightly  gathering  drift  in,  and  there  were 
times  when  its  babble  reached  him  in  vague  far 
away  echoes.  He  sensed  its  departure,  too,  and  the 
fact  that  Storch  was  flinging  himself  upon  the  pile 
of  rags  which  served  as  his  bed.  His  sleep  was 
broken  by  a  harried  idea  that  he  was  attempting  to 
catch  a  steamer  which  forever  eluded  him,  trotting 
aimlessly  up  and  down  a  gangplank  which  led  no 
where,  picking  up  a  litter  that  spilled  continually 
from  a  suitcase  in  his  hand.  It  was  not  a  dreaming 


BROKEN   TO   THE  PLOW  245 

state,  but  the  projection  of  the  main  events  of  the 
preceding  day  distorted  by  fancy. 

Toward  morning  he  fell  into  a  heavy  sleep.  He 
did  not  hear  Storch  leave.  He  woke  at  intervals 
during  the  day  and  relapsed  into  delicious  dozes. 
It  was  evening  when  he  finally  roused  himself.  He 
rose.  He  felt  extraordinarily  refreshed,  stronger, 
in  fact,  than  he  had  been  for  weeks.  Storch  came 
in  shortly  after.  He  had  his  inevitable  loaf  of  crisp 
French  bread  and  a  slice  of  cheese  and  in  his  hip 
pocket  he  had  smuggled  a  pint  bottle  of  thin  red 
wine. 

Fred  laid  the  table  with  the  simple  utensils 
that  such  a  meal  required  and  the  two  sat  down. 
Storch  poured  out  two  glasses  of  wine. 

"I  have  had  great  fun  to-day!"  Storch  said, 
gulping  his  claret  with  a  flourish.  "They're  on 
my  track  again.  You  should  have  seen  how  easily 
I  gave  them  the  slip !  As  a  matter  of  fact  there  is 
nothing  duller  than  a  detective.  He  usually  has 
learned  every  formula  laid  down  for  the  conduct 
of  criminals  and  if  you  don't  run  true  to  form  he 
gets  sore." 

"You  mean  you're  being  watched — shadowed?" 

"Just  that." 

"What  do  you  intend  to  do?" 

Storch  shrugged.  "Being  arrested  and  jailed  is 
losing  its  novelty.  I'll  stick  around  awhile  longer 
until  a  pet  job  or  two  is  accomplished.  ...  I'm  par 
ticularly  anxious  to  see  Hilmer  winged.  .  .  -  What's 
your  plan?" 


246  BROKEN   TO   THE  PLOW 

"Plan? ...  I  have  no  plan.  I  can't  imagine  what 
you're  talking  about.  I  know  one  thing,  though 
.  .  .  I'm  going  to  leave  this  place  at  once." 

Storch  smiled  evilly.  "Going  to  start  plunging 
on  that  capital  your  wife  threw  your  way  yester 
day?  .  .  .  Well,  well,  you've  got  more  initiative 
than  I  thought.  .  .  .  But,  one  piece  of  advice,  my 
friend — the  easiest  way  to  walk  into  a  trap  is  to 
suddenly  try  to  change  your  habits  ...  to  rush  head 
long  in  an  opposite  direction.  You'd  better  stay 
here  awhile  and  bluff  it  out.  They'd  gobble  you  in 
one  mouthful." 

Fred  made  no  reply.  Indeed,  the  meal  was 
finished  in  silence. 

Presently  Storch's  disciples  began  to  drift  in. 
The  meeting  lasted  almost  until  midnight.  They 
were  all  at  fever  heat,  strung  tensely  by  Storch's 
unerring  pressure.  At  the  last  moment  the  man 
who  had  previously  put  the  question  concerning 
Hilmer  prodded  Storch  again. 

Storch  fixed  Fred  suddenly  with  a  gaze  that 
pierced  him  through.  A  silence  fell  upon  the  room. 
Fred  could  feel  every  eye  turned  his  way.  He 
rose  with  a  curious  fluttering  movement  of  escape. 

"There's  one  man  in  this  room  who  has  earned 
the  honor  of  getting  Hilmer,  if  any  man  has," 
Storch  said,  finally,  in  an  extraordinarily  cool  and 
biting  voice.  "Losing  a  wife  isn't  of  any  great 
moment  .  .  .  but  to  be  laughed  at — that's  another 
matter." 

The  silence  continued.     Fred  Starratt  sat  down 


BROKEN  TO   THE  PLOW  247 

/"•          * 
again.  .  .  .  Shortly  after  this  the  gathering  broke 

up.  Storch  went  to  sleep  immediately.  Fred 
blew  out  the  light.  But  he  did  not  throw  himself 
upon  his  couch  this  time.  Instead  he  opened  the 
door  softly  and  crept  out. 

A  bright  moon  was  riding  high  in  the  sky.  He 
went  swiftly  down  the  lane  and  stood  for  a  moment 
upon  the  edge  of  the  cliff  which  plunged  down  to 
ward  the  docks.  The  city  seemed  like  a  frozen  bit 
of  loveliness,  waiting  to  be  melted  to  fluid  beauty 
by  the  fires  of  morning.  He  must  leave  Storch  at 
once,  forever!  He  turned  for  a  backward  glimpse 
of  the  house  that  had  sheltered  and  almost  en 
trapped  him.  A  figure  darted  in  front  of  the  lone 
street  lamp  and  retreated  instantly.  Shadowed! 
Storch  was  right! 

Suddenly  Fred  began  to  whistle — gayly,  loudly, 
with  unquestionable  defiance.  Then  slowly,  very 
slowly,  he  went  back  into  the  house  and  closed  the 
door.  .  .  .  Storch  was  snoring  contentedly. 


CHAPTER  XIX 

HTHE  next  afternoon  Fred  Starratt  took  the 
*  fifty-cent  piece  that  he  had  earned  as  flunky 
to  his  wife  and  spent  every  penny  of  it  in  a  cheap 
barber  shop  on  the  Embarcadero.  He  emerged 
with  an  indifferently  trimmed  beard  and  his  hair 
clipped  into  a  semblance  of  neatness.  He  felt 
better,  in  spite  of  his  tattered  suit  and  gaping  foot 
gear.  Kilmer's  card  was  still  in  his  pocket. 

His  plans  were  hazy,  nebulous,  in  fact.  He  was 
not  quite  sure  as  to  his  next  move.  It  seemed  use 
less  to  attempt  to  flee  from  Storch's  shelter.  He 
had  no  money  and  scarcely  strength  enough  to 
tackle  any  job  that  would  be  open  to  him.  Even 
if  he  elected  to  become  a  strike  breaker  he  would 
have  to  qualify  at  least  with  brawn.  The  prospect 
of  snaring  a  berth  from  Hilmer  had  a  certain 
fascination.  It  would  be  interesting  to  stare 
defiantly  at  his  enemy  at  close  range,  to  speak  with 
him  again  man  to  man,  to  lure  him  into  further 
bravados.  And  then,  if  Storch's  plans  for  Hilmer 
had  any  merits  .  .  .  He  stopped  short,  a  bit  fright 
ened  at  the  realization  that  the  idea  had  presented 
itself  to  him  with  such  directness.  ...  He  had  a 
sudden  yearning  to  talk  to  some  human  being  who 
would  understand.  If  he  could  only  see  Ginger! 


BROKEN  TO   THE  PLOW  249 

He  had  a  feeling  that  somehow  she  must  have 
experienced  every  exaltation  and  every  degrada 
tion  in  the  calendar.  Tenderness  and  passion  and 
the  gift  of  murder  itself  were  ever  the  mixed  lan 
guage  of  the  street.  He  remembered  the  gesture 
he  first  had  made  to  her  almost  timid  advances 
toward  helping  him.  He  had  been  outwardly 
polite,  but  inwardly  how  scornful  of  her  sugges 
tions!  And  once  he  even  had  hesitated  to  let 
her  carry  a  message  to  his  wife!  Now  he  was 
ready  to  stand  or  fall  upon  the  bitter  fruits  of  her 
experience.  He  felt,  curiously,  on  common  ground 
with  her.  And  yet  there  were  certain  intangibil 
ities  he  had  .never  attempted  to  make  positive. 
Somehow  the  mere  fact  of  her  existence  had  en 
veloped  him  like  warm  currents  of  air  which  he 
could  feel,  but  not  visualize.  But  at  this  moment 
he  felt  the  need  of  a  contact  more  personal.  Sud 
denly,  out  of  a  clear  sky,  it  came  to  him  that 
Mrs.  Hilmer  could  tell  him  something  of  Ginger's 
whereabouts.  Mrs.  Hilmer?  Well,  why  not?  The 
more  he  thought  the  idea  over  the  more  it  ap 
pealed  to  him.  He  ended  by  turning  his  steps 
in  the  direction  of  the  Hilmer  home. 

The  maid  who  opened  the  door  eyed  him  with 
more  curiosity  than  caution,  and  her  protests  that 
Mrs.  Hilmer  could  see  no  one  seemed  rather  tenta 
tive  and  perfunctory.  Fred  had  a  curious  feeling 
that  she  was  demanding  a  more  or  less  conventional 
excuse  for  admitting  him,  and  in  the  end  he  flung 
out  as  a  chance : 


250  BROKEN   TO   THE  PLOW 

"Tell  Mrs.  Hilmer  I  have  a  message  from  Sylvia 
Molineaux." 

The  girl's  pale-blue  eyes  sparkled  with  a  curious 
glint  of  humor,  and  without  further  protest  she 
went  away,  and  came  back  as  swiftly  with  an  invi 
tation  for  him  to  step  inside.  There  was  something 
inexplainable  about  this  maid  who  veiled  her  eager 
ness  to  admit  him  with  such  transparencies.  Even 
a  fool  would  scarcely  have  left  so  forbidding  a 
character  to  dawdle  about  the  living  room  while 
she  went  to  fetch  her  mistress. 

He  had  expected  to  find  this  room  changed,  and 
yet  he  was  not  prepared  for  quite  the  quality  of 
familiarity  which  it  possessed.  Most  of  the  old 
Hilmer  knickknacks  had  been  swept  aside,  their 
places  taken  by  bits  that  had  once  enlivened  the 
Starratt  household.  Here  was  a  silver  vase  that 
he  had  bought  Helen  for  an  anniversary  present, 
and  there  a  Whistler  etching  that  had  been  their 
wedding  portion.  His  easy-chair  was  in  a  corner, 
and  Helen's  music  rack  filled  with  all  the  things  she 
used  to  play  for  his  delight.  And  on  the  mantel, 
in  a  silver  frame,  his  picture,  with  a  little  bowl  of 
fading  flowers  before  it.  ...  He  went  over  and 
picked  it  up.  Instinctively  he  glanced  in  the 
mirror  just  in  front  of  him.  .  .  .  Dead  .  .  .  quite  dead! 
No  wonder  his  wife  put  flowers  before  this  photo 
graphic  shrine.  .  .  .  For  a  moment  he  had  a  swoon 
ing  hope  that  he  had  misjudged  her  .  .  .  that  he  had 
misread  everybody  .  .  .  that  they  had  done  every 
thing  for  him  that  they  thought  was  best.  But  he 


BROKEN  TO   THE  PLOW  251 

emerged  from  this  brief  deception  with  a  shuddering 
laugh.  ...  He  would  not  have  cared  so  much  if  his 
wife  had  swept  him  from  her  life  completely  .  .  . 
but  to  trample  on  him  and  still  use  his  shadow  as  a 
screen — this  was  too  much!  What  really  pallid 
creatures  these  women  of  convention  were!  How 
little  they  were  prepared  to  risk  anything!  He 
could  almost  hear  the  comments  that  Helen 
inspired : 

"Poor  Helen  Starratt!  She  has  had  an  awful 
time!  ...  I  don't  know  what  she  would  have  done 
without  the  Kilmers.  .  .  .  She's  so  devoted  to  Mrs. 
Hilmer.  .  .  .  I  .do  think  it's  lovely  that  they  can  be 
together." 

He  felt  that  he  could  have  admired  a  Helen 
Starratt  with  the  courage  of  her  primitive  instincts. 
As  it  was,  he  was  ashamed  to  own  that  he  ex 
perienced  even  rancor  at  her  pretenses. 

He  heard  the  sound  of  a  wheeled  chair  coming 
toward  the  living  room  and  he  made  a  pretense 
of  staring  aimlessly  into  the  street.  Presently  a 
sepulchral  voice  broke  the  silence.  He  turned — 
Mrs.  Hilmer  was  leaning  forward  in  her  chair, 
regarding  him  attentively,  while  the  maid  stood  a 
little  to  one  side.  He  had  expected  to  come  upon 
a  huddle  of  blond  plumpness,  an  inanimate  mass 
of  forceless  flesh  robbed  of  its  bovine  suavity  by 
inactivity.  What  he  saw  was  a  body  thin  to 
emaciation  and  a  face  drawn  into  a  tight-lipped 
discontent.  The  old  curves  of  flesh  had  melted, 
displaying  the  heaviness  of  the  framework  which 


2 52  BROKEN   TO   THE  PLOW 

had  supported  them.  The  eyes  were  restless  and 
glittering,  the  once-plump  hands  shrunken  into 
claws. 

"You  .  .  .  you  have  a  message  from  Sylvia 
Molineaux?" 

She  tossed  the  question  toward  him  with  biting 
directness.  Could  it  be  possible  that  this  was  the 
same  woman '  who  had  purred  so  contentedly  over 
a  receipt  for  corn  pudding  somewhat  over  a  year 
ago? 

He  moved  a  step  nearer.  "Yes  .  .  .  but  it  is 
private." 

The  maid  made  a  slight  grimace  and  put  her  hand 
protectingly  upon  Mrs.  Kilmer's  chair.  Mrs.  Hil- 
mer  shifted  about  impatiently. 

"Never  mind,  Hilda,"  she  snapped  out.  "I  am 
not  afraid." 

The  maid  shrugged  and  departed. 

"I  have  wanted  to  see  her,"  Mrs.  Hilmer  went  on, 
coldly.  "But  who  could  I  send?  .  .  .  Few  people 
understand  her  life." 

"Ah,  then  you  have  guessed?" 

"Guessed?  .  .  .  She  has  told  me  everything." 

A  shade  of  bitter  malice  crept  into  her  face — 
the  malice  of  a  woman  who  has  learned  truths  and 
is  no  longer  shocked  by  them.  Fred  Starratt  put 
his  hat  aside  and  he  went  up  close  to  her. 

"I  lied  to  get  in  here,"  he  said,  quickly.  "I  am 
looking  for  Sylvia  Molineaux  myself." 

"Why  don't  you  try  the  streets,  then?"  she  flung 
out,  venomously. 


BROKEN  TO   THE  PLOW  253 

He  felt  almost  as  if  an  insult  had  been  hurled  at 
him.  He  searched  Mrs.  Kilmer's  face.  Some 
thing  more  than  physical  pain  had  harrowed  the 
woman  before  him  to  such  deliberate  mockery. 

"You,  too!"  he  cried.  "How  you  must  have 
suffered!" 

She  gave  a  little  cackling  laugh  that  made  him 
shudder.  "What  about  yourself?"  she  queried. 
"You  do  not  look  like  a  happy  man." 

"Would  you  be  ...  if  ...  Look  at  me  closely , 
Mrs.  Hilmer!  Have  you  ever  seen  me  before?" 

He  bent  toward  her.  She  took  his  face  between 
her  two  clawlik'e  fingers.  Her  eyes  were  points  of 
greedy  flame. 

When  she  finally  spoke  her  voice  had  almost  a 
pensive  quality  to  it. 

"You  might  have  been  Fred  Starratt,  once" 
she  said,  evenly. 

He  rose  to  his  feet. 

"I  knew  you  were  not  dead,"  he  heard  her  saying. 
"And  I  don't  think  she  felt  sure,  either.  .  .  .  Ah, 
how  I  have  worried  her  since  that  day!  Every 
morning  I  used  to  say :  '  I  dreamed  of  your  husband 
last  night.  He  was  swimming  out  of  a  black  pool 
...  a  very  black  pool.'" 

She  chuckled  at  the  memory  of  her  sinister 
banter.  So  Helen  Starratt  did  not  have  every 
thing  her  own  way!  There  were  weapons  which 
even  weakness  could  flourish. 

"Where  has  she  gone?"  he  asked,  suddenly. 

"South,  for  a  change.  .  .  .  I've  worried  her  sick 


254  BROKEN   TO   THE  PLOW 

with  my  black  pool.  Whenever  the  doorbell 
would  ring  I  would  say  as  sweetly  as  I  could, 
'What  if  that  should  be  your  husband?'  I  drove 
her  out  with  just  that.  .  .  .  You've  come  just  the 
right  time  to  help.  It  couldn't  have  been  planned 
any  better." 

She  might  have  been  Storch,  masquerading  in 
skirts,  as  she  sat  there  casting  significantly  narrow 
glances  at  him.  He  wondered  why  he  had  come. 
He  felt  like  a  fly  struggling  from  the  moist  depths 
of  a  cream  jug  only  to  be  thrust  continually  back 
by  a  ruthless  force.  Was  everybody  bent  on 
plunging  him  into  the  ultimate  despair  ?  He  moved 
back  with  a  poignant  gesture  of  escape. 

"You  mustn't  count  on  me,  Mrs.  Hilmer!"  he 
cried,  desperately.  "I'm  nothing  but  a  poor,  spent 
man.  I've  lost  the  capacity  for  revenge." 

She  smiled  maliciously.  "You  see  me  here — 
helpless.  And  yet,  in  all  these  months  I've  prayed 
for  only  one  thing — to  have  strength  enough  one 
day  to  rise  in  this  chair  and  throw  myself  upon 
them  both.  .  .  .  Oh,  but  I  should  like  to  kill  them! 
.  .  .  You  talk  about  suffering  .  .  .  but  do  you  know 
what  it  is  to  feel  the  caress  of  hands  that  are 
waiting  to  lay  hold  of  everything  that  was  once 
yours?  ...  I  have  six  months  more  to  live.  The 
doctor  told  me  yesterday.  .  .  .  Six  months  more, 
getting  weaker  every  day,  until  at  last — " 

She  brought  her  hands  up  in  a  vigorous  flourish, 
which  died  pitifully.  He  felt  a  contempt  for  his 
impotence.  He  dropped  into  a  seat  opposite  her. 


BROKEN   TO   THE  PLOW  255 

1  'Tell  me  about  it ...  all ...  from  the  beginning," 
he  begged. 

She  opened  the  floodgates  cautiously  at  first  .  .  . 
going  back  to  the  day  when  it  had  come  upon 
her  that  she  was  a  stranger  in  her  own  house. 
.  .  .  Kilmer's  moral  lapses  had  never  affronted  her. 
She  knew  men — or  her  father,  to  be  exact,  and 
his  father  before  him.  They  were  as  God  made 
them,  no  better  and  no  worse.  Perhaps  she  had 
never  admitted  it,  but  she  would  no  doubt  have 
felt  a  contempt  for  a  man  without  the  capacity  for 
truant  inconstancies.  But  she  had  her  place  from 
which  it  was  inconceivable  that  she  could  be  dis 
lodged.  ...  On  that  day  when  she  had  realized  that 
this  position  was  threatened  she  had  been  put  to 
one  of  two  alternatives — open  revolt  or  deceitful 
acceptance.  She  had  chosen  the  latter.  In  the 
end  her  choice  was  justified,  for  she  had  begun  to 
undermine  Helen  Starratt's  content  with  subtle 
purring  which  dripped  a  steady  pool  of  disquiet. 

"She  hasn't  abandoned  herself  yet,"  she  said, 
moving  her  claws  restlessly.  "She's  too  clever  for 
that.  .  .  .  She  wants  my  place.  Kilmer's  like  all 
men — he  won't  have  a  mistress  for  a  wife.  .  .  .  And 
she  never  would  be  any  man's  mistress  while  she 
saw  a  chance  for  the  other  thing  .  .  .  she's  too — " 

She  broke  off  suddenly,  unable  to  find  a  word 
inclusive  enough  for  all  the  contempt  she  wished  to 
crowd  into  it.  He  was  learning  things.  She  could 
have  ignored  a  frank  courtesan  with  disdainful 
aloofness,  but  discreetly  veiled  wantonness  made 


2  56  BROKEN   TO   THE  PLOW 

her  articulate.  When  she  mentioned  Ginger  her 
voice  took  a  soft  pity,  mixed  with  certain  condescen 
sion.  She  was  sympathetic,  but  there  were  still 
many  things  she  could  not  understand. 

"She  used  to  come  and  pass  me  every  morn 
ing,"  Mrs.  Hilmer  explained,  "and  your  wife  would 
look  at  her  from  head  to  foot.  One  day  I  said, 
'Who  is  that  woman?'  .  .  .  'How  should  I  know?' 
she  answered  me.  And  I  knew  from  her  manner 
that  she  was  lying.  The  next  day  I  spoke  deliber 
ately.  After  that  it  was  easy.  .  .  .  She  is  a  strange 
girl.  She  would  come  and  read  me  such  beautiful 
things  and  then  go  away  to  that!  .  .  .  'How  is  it 
possible  for  one  woman  to  be  so  good  and  so  bad?' 
I  asked  her  once.  And  all  she  said  was,  'How 
would  you  have  us — all  devil  or  all  saint?'  .  .  . 
During  all  this  your  wife  said  nothing.  When  she 
would  see  Sylvia  Molineaux  coming  down  the  street 
she  would  wheel  my  chair  into  a  quiet  corner  and 
walk  calmly  into  the  house.  .  .  .  One  day  Sylvia 
Molineaux  spoke  of  you.  She  told  me  the  whole 
story  and  in  the  end  she  said:  'I  don't  come  here 
altogether  to  be  kind  to  you  ...  I  come  here  to 
worry  her.  You  cannot  imagine  how  I  hate  her!' 
The  next  morning  I  said  to  Helen  Starratt,  'Did 
you  know  that  Sylvia  Molineaux  was  a  friend  of 
your  husband?'  She  had  to  answer  me  civilly. 
There  was  no  other  way  out.  But  after  that  I  said, 
whenever  I  could,  'Sylvia  Molineaux  tells  me  this,' 
or,  'Sylvia  Molineaux  tells  me  that.'  And  I 
would  give  her  the  tattle  of  Fairview.  ...  I  know 


BROKEN   TO   THE  PLOW  257 

she  could  have  strangled  me,  because  she  smiled 
too  sweetly.  But  she  made  no  protest,  no  com 
ment.  She  merely  walked  into  the  house  whenever 
Sylvia  Molineaux  appeared.  But  it  worried  her — 
yes,  almost  as  much  as  that  black  pool  from  which 
I  had  you  swimming  every  morning.  .  .  .  And  so  it 
went  on  until  the  day  after  word  had  come  that 
you  had  been  drowned.  I  had  not  seen  Sylvia 
for  some  days.  She  came  down  the  street  at  the 
usual  time.  Helen  was  still  up  in  her  room  .  .  .  the 
maid  had  wheeled  me  out.  She  said  nothing  about 
what  had  happened.  But  she  looked  very  pale 
as  she  opened  her  book  to  read  to  me.  In  the 
midst  of  all  this  your  wife  came  out  and  stood  for  a 
moment  upon  the  landing.  We  looked  up.  She 
was  in  black.  I  gave  one  glance  at  Sylvia.  She 
closed  her  book  with  a  bang  and  suddenly  she  was 
on  her  feet.  'Black!  Black!'  she  cried  out  in  a 
loud  voice.  '  How  can  you ! '  Your  wife  grew  pale 
and  walked  quickly  back  into  the  house.  Sylvia's 
face  was  dreadful.  'I  can't  trust  myself  to  come 
here  again!'  she  said,  turning  on  me  fiercely. 
'Fancy,  she  can  wear  black.  The  hussy  .  .  .  the  .  .  .' 
No,  I  shall  not  repeat  what  else  she  said.  .  .  .  But 
when  she  had  finished  I  caught  her  hand  and  I  said : 
'  Come  back  and  kill  her !  Come  back  and  kill  her, 
Sylvia  Molineaux!'  She  gave  a  cry  and  left  me. 
I  have  not  seen  her  since." 

He  sat  staring  at  the  wasted  figure  before  him. 
Who  would  have  thought,  seeing  her  in  a  happier 
day,  that  she  could  quiver  with  such  red-fanged 


258  BROKEN   TO   THE  PLOW 

energy!  After  all,  she  was  more  primitive  even 
than  Ginger.  She  was  like  some  limpid,  prattling 
stream  swollen  to  sudden  fury  by  a  cloudburst  of 
bitterness. 

He  was  recalled  from  his  scrutiny  of  the  terrible 
figure  before  him  by  the  sound  of  her  voice,  this 
time  dropping  into  a  monologue  which  held  a  half- 
musing  quality.  Hilmer  was  puzzling  her  a  bit. 
She  could  not  quite  understand  why  a  man  accus 
tomed  to  hew  his  way  without  restraint  should  be 
possessing  his  soul  in  such  patience  before  Helen 
Starratt's  provocative  advances  and  discreet  re 
treats.  Either  she  was  unable  or  unwilling  to 
fathom  the  fascination  which  a  subtle  game  some 
times  held  for  a  man  schooled  only  in  elemental  ap 
proaches  toward  his  goal.  Was  he  enthralled  or 
confused  or  merely  curious?  And  how  long  would 
he  continue  to  give  his  sufferance  scope?  How  long 
would  he  pretend  to  play  the  moth  to  Helen 
Starratt's  fitful  flamings?  Mrs.  Hilmer,  raising 
the  question,  answered  it  tentatively  by  a  state 
ment  that  held  a  curious  mixture  of  hope  and 
fear. 

"Kilmer's  going  south  himself  next  week.  .  .  . 
On  business,  he  says."  She  laughed  harshly.  "I 
wonder  if  they  both  think  me  quite  a  fool!  ...  If 
he  succeeds  this  time  she's  done  for!" 

Fred  Starratt  stirred  in  his  seat. 

"Don't  deceive  yourself,"  he  found  himself  say 
ing,  coldly;  "whatever  else  my  wife  is,  she's  no 
fool.  .  Remember,  she  wrote  me  a  letter  every 


BROKEN  TO   THE  PLOW  259 

week.  She  looks  over  her  cards  before  she  plays 
them.  ...  A  few  months  more  or  less  don't — " 

He  broke  off,  suddenly  amazed  at  his  cruelty. 
Mrs.  Kilmer's  expression  changed  from  arrested 
exultation  to  fretful  appeal. 

"I  have  only  six  months  to  live,"  she  wailed. 
"If  I  could  walk  just  for  a  day  ...  an  hour  .  .  .  five 
minutes!" 

She  covered  her  face  in  her  hands. 

"What  do  you  expect  me  to  do?"  he  asked, 
helplessly,  with  a  certain  air  of  resignation. 

She  took  her  fingers  from  her  eyes.  A  crafty 
smile  illumined  her  features.  '  *  How  should  I  know  ? 
.  .  .  What  do  men  do  in  such  cases?  .  .  .  She  will 
be  gone  two  weeks.  I  pray  God  she  may  never 
enter  this  house  again.  But  that  is  in  your 
hands." 

He  felt  suddenly  cold  all  over,  as  if  she  had  de 
livered  an  enemy  into  his  keeping.  She  still  loved 
Axel  Hilmer  .  .  .  loved  him  to  the  point  of  hatred. 
What  she  wished  for  was  his  head  upon  a  charger. 
With  other  backgrounds  and  other  circumstances 
crowding  her  to  fury  she  would  have  danced  for 
her  boon  like  the  daughter  of  Herodias.  As  it 
was,  she  sat  like  some  pagan  goddess,  full  of  sin 
ister  silences,  impotent,  yet  unconquered. 

And  again  Storch's  prophetic  words  swept  him: 

"Like  a  field  broken  to  the  plow!" 

There  was  a  terrible  beauty  in  the  phrase.  Was 
sorrow  the  only  plowshare  that  turned  the  quiescent 
soul  to  bountiful  harvest?  Was  it  better  to  reap 


260  BROKEN   TO   THE  PLOW 

a  whirlwind  than  to  see  a  shallow  yield  of  unbroken 
content  wither  to  its  sterile  end? 

He  found  Ginger's  lodgings  that  night,  in  a 
questionable  quarter  of  the  town,  but  she  did  not 
respond  to  his  knock  upon  the  door. 

"Why  don't  you  try  the  streets,  then?"  Mrs. 
Kilmer's  sneer  recurred  with  all  its  covert  bitterness. 

The  suggestion  made  him  sick.  And  he  had 
fancied  all  along  that  ugliness  had  lost  the  power  to 
move  him  .  .  .  that  he  was  prepared  for  the  harsh 
facts  of  existence! 

He  waited  an  hour  upon  the  street  corner,  and 
when  she  came  along  finally  she  was  in  the  company 
of  a  man.  ...  He  grew  suddenly  cold  all  over. 
When  they  passed  him  he  could  almost  hear  his 
teeth  chattering.  They  disappeared,  swallowed  up 
in  the  sinister  light  of  a  beguiling  doorway.  He 
stared  for  a  moment  stupidly,  then  turned  and 
fled,  looking  neither  to  the  right  nor  to  the  left. 
He  realized  now  that  he  had  reached  the  heights 
of  bitterest  ecstasy  and  the  depths  of  profound  hu 
miliation. 

Storch  was  alone,  bending  close  to  the  lamp,  read 
ing,  when  Fred  Starratt  broke  in  upon  him.  He 
did  not  lift  his  head. 

Fred  went  softly  into  a  corner  and  sat  down.  .  .  . 
Finally,  after  a  while,  Storch  laid  his  book  aside. 
He  gave  one  searching  look  at  Fred's  face. 

"Well,  have  you  decided?"  he  asked,  with  calm 
directness. 


BROKEN   TO   THE  PLOW  261 

Fred's  hands  gave  a  flourish  of  resignation. 
"Yes.  .  .  .  I'll  do  it!"  he  answered  in  a  whisper. 

Storch  picked  up  his  book  again  and  went  on 
reading.  Presently  he  lifted  his  eyes  from  the 
printed  page  as  he  said: 

"We  won't  have  any  more  meetings  here.  .  .  . 
Things  are  getting  a  little  too  dangerous.  .  .  .  How 
soon  will  the  job  be  finished?" 

Fred  rose,  shaking  himself.  "Within  two  weeks, 
if  it  is  finished  at  all ! " 

He  went  close  to  Storch  and  put  a  hand  upon  his 
shoulder.  "You  know  every  bitter  thing  .  .  .  tell 
me,  why  does  a  man  love?" 

Storch  laughed  unpleasantly.  ' '  To  breed  hatred ! ' ' 

Fred  Starratt  sat  down  again  with  a  gesture  of 
despair. 


CHAPTER  XX 

CROM  this  moment  on  Fred  Starratt's  existence 
•*•  had  the  elements  of  a  sleepwalking  dream. 
He  felt  himself  going  through  motions  which  he 
was  powerless  to  direct.  Already  Storch  and  his 
associates  were  allowing  him  a  certain  aloofness — 
letting  him  set  himself  apart  with  the  melancholy 
arrogance  of  one  who  had  been  chosen  for  a  fanatical 
sacrifice. 

Replying  to  Storch's  question  regarding  his  plans, 
he  said,  decidedly : 

' '  I  leave  all  that  to  you.  .  .  .  Give  me  instructions 
and  I'll  act.  But  I  want  to  know  nothing  until 
the  end." 

"Within  two  weeks.  ...  Is  there  a  special  reason 
why  .  .  ." 

11  Yes  ...  a  very  special  reason. " 

Storch  turned  away.  But  the  next  day  he  said, 
"Have  you  that  card  that  Hilmer  gave  you?" 

Fred  yielded  it  up. 

Storch  smiled  his  wide,  green  smile.  Fred  asked 
no  questions,  but  he  guessed  the  plans.  A  spy  was 
to  be  worked  in  upon  Hilmer. 

Every  morning  now  Fred  Starratt  found  a  silver 
dollar  upon  the  cluttered  table  at  Storch's.  He 
smiled  grimly  as  he  pocketed  the  money.  He  was 


BROKEN   TO   THE  PLOW  263 

to  have  not  a  care  in  the  world.  Like  a  perfect 
youth  of  the  ancients  marked  for  a  sweet-scented 
offering  to  the  gods,  he  was  to  go  his  way  in  perfect 
freedom  until  his  appointed  time.  There  was  an 
element  of  grotesqueness  in  it  all  that  dulled  the 
edge  of  horror  which  he  should  have  felt. 

Sometimes  he  would  sally  forth  in  a  noonday  sun, 
intent  on  solitude,  but  usually  he  craved  life  and 
bustle  and  the  squalor  of  cluttered  foregrounds. 
With  his  daily  dole  of  silver  jingling  in  his  pocket 
he  went  from  coffeehouse  to  coffeehouse  or  drowsed 
an  hour  or  two  in  a  crowded  square  or  stood  with 
his  foot  upon  the  rail  of  some  emasculated  saloon, 
listening  to  the  malcontents  muttering  over  their 
draughts  of  watery  beer. 

"Ah  yes,"  he  would  hear  these  last  grumble, 
"the  rich  can  have  their  grog.  ...  But  the  poor 
man — he  can  get  it  only  when  he  is  dying  .  .  .  pro 
viding  he  has  the  price." 

And  here  would  follow  the  inevitable  reply,  sharp 
ened  by  bitter  sarcasm : 

"But  all  this  is  for  the  poor  man's  good  .  .  .  you 
understand.  Men  work  better  when  they  do  not 
indulge  in  follies.  .  .  .  They  will  stop  dancing  next. 
Girls  in  factories  should  not  come  to  work  all  tired 
out  on  Monday  morning.  They  would  find  it  much 
more  restful  to  spend  the  time  upon  their  knees." 

It  was  not  what  they  said,  but  the  tone  of  it, 
that  made  Fred  Starratt  shudder.  Their  laughter 
was  the  terrible  laughter  of  sober  men  without 
either  the  wit  or  circumstance  to  escape  into  a 


264  BROKEN   TO   THE  PLOW 

temperate  gayety  of  spirit.  He  still  sat  apart,  a  she 
had  done  at  Fairview  and  again  at  Storch's  gather 
ings.  He  had  not  been  crushed  sufficiently,  even 
yet,  to  mingle  either  harsh  mirth  or  scalding  tears 
with  theirs.  But  he  was  feeling  a  passion  for  ugli 
ness  ...  he  wanted  to  drain  the  bitter  circumstance 
of  life  to  the  lees.  He  was  seeking  to  harden  him 
self  to  his  task  past  all  hope  of  reconsideration. 

He  liked  especially  to  talk  to  the  cripples  of 
industry.  Here  was  a  man  who  had  been  blinded 
by  a  hot  iron  bolt  flung  wide  of  its  mark,  and 
another  with  his  hand  gnawed  clean  by  some  gan 
grenous  product  of  flesh  made  raw  by  the  vibrations 
of  a  riveting  machine.  And  there  were  the  men 
deafened  by  the  incessant  pounding  of  boiler  shops, 
and  one  poor,  silly,  lone  creature  whose  teeth 
had  been  slowly  eaten  away  by  the  excessive  sugar 
floating  in  the  air  of  a  candy  factory.  Somehow 
this  last  man  was  the  most  pathetic  of  all.  In 
the  final  analysis,  his  calling  seemed  so  trivial,  and 
he  a  sacrifice  upon  the  altar  of  a  petty  vanity. 
Once  he  met  a  man  weakened  into  consumption 
by  the  deadly  heat  of  a  bakeshop.  These  men 
did  not  whine,  but  they  exhibited  their  distortions 
with  the  malicious  pride  of  beggars.  They  de 
manded  sympathy,  and  somehow  their  insistence 
had  a  humiliating  quality.  He  used  to  wonder,  in 
rare  moments  of  reflection,  how  long  it  would  take 
for  all  this  foul  seepage  to  undermine  the  founda 
tions  of  life.  Or  would  it  merely  corrode  every 
thing  it  came  in  contact  with,  very  much  as  it 


BROKEN  TO   THE  PLOW  265 

had  corroded  him?  Only  occasionally  did  he  have 
an  impulse  to  escape  from  the  terrible  estate  to 
which  his  rancor  had  called  him.  At  such  intervals 
he  would  turn  his  feet  toward  the  old  quarter  of  the 
town  and  stand  before  the  garden  that  had  once 
smiled  upon  his  mother's  wooing,  seeking  to  warm 
himself  once  again  in  the  sunlight  of  traditions. 
The  fence,  that  had  screened  the  garden  from  the 
nipping  wind  which  swept  in  every  afternoon  from 
the  bay,  was  rotting  to  a  sure  decline,  disclosing 
great  gaps,  and  the  magnolia  tree  struggling 
bravely  against  odds  to  its  appointed  blossoming. 
But  it  was  growing  blackened  and  distorted. 
Some  day,  he  thought,  it  would  wither  utterly.  .  .  . 
He  always  turned  away  from  this  familiar  scene 
with  the  profound  melancholy  springing  from  the 
realization  that  the  past  was  a  pale  corpse  lighted 
by  the  tapers  of  feeble  memory. 

One  afternoon,  accomplishing  again  this  vain 
pilgrimage,  he  found  the  tree  snapped  to  an  un 
timely  end.  It  had  gone  down  ingloriously  in  a 
twisting  gale  that  had  swept  the  garden  the  night 
before. 

In  answer  to  his  question,  the  man  intent  on 
clearing  away  the  wreckage  said: 

"The  wind  just  caught  it  right.  ...  It  was  dying, 
anyway." 

Fred  Starratt  retraced  his  steps.  It  was  as  if  the 
old  tree  had  stood  as  a  symbol  of  his  own  life. 

He  never  went  back  to  view  the  old  garden  again, 
but,  instead,  he  stood  at  midnight  upon  the  corner 


266  BROKEN   TO   THE  PLOW 

past  which  Ginger  walked  with  such  monotonous 
and  terrible  fidelity.  He  would  stand  off  in  the 
shadows  and  see  her  go  by,  sometimes  alone,  but 
more  often  in  obscene  company.  And  in  those  mo 
ments  he  tasted  the  concentrated  bitterness  of  life. 
Was  this  really  a  malicious  jest  or  a  test  of  his 
endurance?  To  what  black  purpose  had  belated 
love  sprung  up  in  his  heart  for  this  woman  of  the 
streets?  And  to  think  that  once  he  had  fancied 
that  so  withering  a  passion  was  as  much  a  matter 
of  good  form  as  of  cosmic  urging !  There  had  been 
conventions  in  love — and  styles  and  seasons!  One 
loved  purity  and  youth  and  freshness.  Yes,  it  had 
been  as  easy  as  that  for  him.  Just  as  it  had  been 
as  easy  for  him  to  choose  a  nice  and  pallid  calling 
for  expressing  his  work-day  joy.  He  could  have 
understood  a  feeling  of  sinister  passion  for  Sylvia 
Molineaux  and  likewise  he  could  have  indulged  it. 
But  the  snare  was  more  subtle  and  cruel  than  that. 
He  was  fated  to  feel  the  awe  and  mystery  and 
beauty  of  a  rose-white  love  which  he  saw  hourly 
trampled  in  the  grime  of  the  streets.  He  had 
fancied  once  that  love  was  a  matter  of  give  and  take 
...  he  knew  now  that  it  was  essentially  an  outpour 
ing  .  .  .  that  to  love  was  sufficient  to  itself  .  .  .  that 
it  could  be  without  reward,  or  wage,  or  even  hope. 
He  knew  now  that  it  could  spring  up  without 
sowing,  endure  without  rain,  come  to  its  blossoming 
in  utter  darkness.  And  yet  he  did  not  have  the 
courage  of  these  revelations.  He  felt  their  beauty, 
but  it  was  the  beauty  of  nakedness,  and  he  had  no 


BROKEN   TO   THE  PLOW  267 

skill  to  weave  a  philosophy  with  which  to  clothe 
them.  If  it  had  been  possible  a  year  ago  for  him 
to  have  admitted  so  cruel  a  love  he  knew  what  he 
would  have  done.  He  would  have  waited  for  her 
upon  this  selfsame  street  corner  and  shot  her  down, 
turning  the  weapon  upon  himself.  Yes,  he  would 
have  been  full  of  just  such  empty  heroics.  Thus 
would  he  have  expressed  his  contempt  and  scorn 
of  the  circumstance  which  had  tricked  him.  But 
now  he  was  beyond  so  conventional  a  settlement. 

The  huddled  meetings  about  Storch's  shattered 
lamp  were  no  more,  but  in  small  groups  the  scat 
tered  malcontents  exchanged  whispered  confidences 
in  any  gathering  place  they  chanced  upon.  Fred 
Starratt  listened  to  the  furtive  reports  of  then- 
activities  with  morbid  interest.  But  he  had  to 
confess  that,  so  far,  they  were  proving  empty  wind 
bags.  The  promised  reign  of  terror  seemed  still 
a  long  way  off.  There  were  moments  even  when 
he  would  speculate  whether  or  not  he  was  being 
tricked  into  unsupported  crime.  But  he  raised  the 
question  merely  out  of  curiosity.  .  .  .  Word  seemed 
to  have  been  passed  that  he  was  disdainful  of  all 
plans  for  setting  the  trap  which  he  was  to  spring. 
But  one  day,  coming  upon  a  group  unawares  in  a 
Greek  coffeehouse  on  Folsom  Street,  he  caught  a 
whispered  reference  to  Hilmer.  Upon  the  marble- 
topped  table  was  spread  a  newspaper — Kilmer's 
picture  smiled  insolently  from  the  printed  page. 
The  gathering  broke  up  in  quick  confusion  on 
finding  him  a  silent  auditor.  When  they  were  gone 


268  BROKEN  TO   THE  PLOW 

he  reached  for  the  newspaper.  A  record-breaking 
launching  was  to  be  achieved  at  Kilmer's  shipyard 
within  the  week.  The  article  ended  with  a  boast 
ful  fling  from  Hilmer  to  the  effect  that  his  plant 
was  running  to  full  capacity  in  spite  of  strikes  and 
lockouts.  Fred  threw  the  paper  to  the  floor.  A 
chill  enveloped  him.  He  had  caught  only  the 
merest  fragments  of  conversation  which  had  fallen 
from  the  lips  of  the  group  he  had  surprised,  but  his 
intuitions  had  been  sharpened  by  months  of  mis 
fortune.  He  knew  at  once  what  date  had  been  set 
for  the  consummation  of  Storch's  sinister  plot. 
He  rose  to  his  feet,  shivering  until  his  teeth  chat 
tered.  He  felt  like  a  man  invested  with  all  the 
horrid  solemnity  of  the  death  watch. 


CHAPTER  XXI 

'"THAT  night  Storch  confirmed  Fred's  intuitions. 
*  He  said,  pausing  a  moment  over  gulping  his  in 
evitable  bread  and  cheese : 

"I  have  planned  everything  for  Saturday." 

Fred  cut  himself  a  slice  of  bread.  "So  I  under 
stand,"  he  said,  coldly. 

"Who  told  you?" 

"Your  companions  are  great  gossips  .  .  .  and  I 
have  ears." 

The  insolence  in  Fred's  tone  made  Storch  knit  his 
brows. 

"Well,  knowing  so  much,  you  must  be  ready  for 
details  now,"  he  flung  out. 

Fred  nodded. 

Storch  lighted  his  pipe  and  glowered.  "The 
launching  is  to  take  place  at  noon.  Hilmer  has 
planned  to  arrive  at  the  yards  promptly  at  eleven 
forty-five  at  the  north  gate.  Everything  is  ready,, 
down  to  the  last  detail." 

"Including  the  bomb?"  Fred  snapped,  suddenly. 

"Including  the  bomb,"  Storch  repeated,  malev 
olently,  caressing  the  phrase  with  a  note  of  rare 
affection.  "It  is  the  most  skillful  arrangement  I 
have  seen  in  a  long  time  ...  in  a  kodak  case.  By 

18 


270  BROKEN   TO   THE  PLOW 

the  way  .  .  .  are  you  accurate  at  heaving  things? .  .  . 
You  are  to  stand  upon  the  roof  of  a  row  of  one- 
story  stores  quite  near  the  entrance  and  promptly 
at  the  precise  minute — " 

"Ah,  a  time  bomb!" 

"Naturally." 

"And  if  Kilmer  should  be  late?" 

"He  is  always  on  time.  .  .  .  And,  besides,  there  is  a 
special  reason.  He  wants  the  launching  accom 
plished  on  the  stroke  of  noon." 

"And  if  he  comes  too  early?" 

"Impossible.  He  went  south  last  week  .  .  .  you 
knew  that,  of  course.  And  he  doesn't  get  into 
San  Francisco  until  late  that  morning.  He  is  to 
be  met  at  Third  and  Townsend  streets  and  go  at 
once  to  Oakland  in  his  machine.  .  .  .  There  will  be 
four  in  the  party  .  .  .  perhaps  six." 

Fred  Starratt  stood  up  slowly,  repressing  a  desire 
to  leap  suddenly  to  his  feet.  He  walked  up  and 
down  the  cluttered  room  twice.  Storch  watched 
him  narrowly. 

"Six  in  the  party?"  Fred  echoed.  "Any  women?" 

Storch  rubbed  his  palms  together.  "There  may 
be  two  .  .  .  providing  your  wife  comes  back  with 
him.  .  .  .  Mrs.  Hilmer  sent  for  her." 

"Mrs.  Hilmer!" 

Storch  smiled  his  usual  broad  smile,  exhibiting  his 
green  teeth. 

"She  developed  a  whim  to  attend  the  launching. 
.  .  .  Naturally  she  wished  her  dearest  friend  with 
her." 


BROKEN   TO   THE  PLOW  271 

Fred  Starratt  sat  down.  He  was  trembling  in 
wardly,  but  he  knew  instinctively  that  he  must  ap 
pear  nonchalant  and  calm.  He  guessed  at  once 
that  it  would  not  do  for  him  to  betray  the  fact  that 
suddenly  he  realized  how  completely  he  had  been 
snared.  Yet  his  trepidation  must  have  communi 
cated  itself,  for  Storch  leaned  forward  with  the 
diabolical  air  of  an  inquisitor  and  said: 

"Does  it  matter  in  the  least  whether  there  is  one 
victim  or  six?" 

Fred  managed  to  reply,  coolly,  "Not  the  slightest 
.  .  .  but  I  have  been  thinking  in  terms  of  one." 

Storch  smiled  evilly.  "That  would  have  been 
absurd  in  any  case.  There  are  always  a  score  or  so 
of  bystanders  who ..." 

"Yes,  of  course,  of  course.  Just  so!"  Fred 
interrupted. 

Storch  laid  his  pipe  aside  and  drained  a  half -filled 
glass  of  red  wine  standing  beside  his  plate. 

"I  think  I've  turned  a  very  neat  trick,"  he  said, 
smacking  his  lips  in  satisfaction.  "It's  almost  like 
a  Greek  tragedy — Hilmer,  his  wife,  and  yours  in 
one  fell  swoop,  and  at  your  hand.  There  is  an 
artistic  unity  about  this  affair  that  has  been  lacking 
in  some  of  my  other  triumphs." 

Fred  rose  again,  and  this  time  he  turned  squarely 
on  Storch  as  he  asked: 

"How  long  have  you  and  Mrs.  Hilmer  been  plot 
ting  this  together?" 

Storch's  eyes  widened  in  surprise.  "You're 
getting  keener  every  moment.  .  .  .  Well,  you've 


272  BROKEN   TO   THE  PLOW 

asked  a  fair  question.  I  planted  that  maid  in  the 
house  soon  after  I  knew  the  story." 

"After  the  fever  set  me  to  prattling?" 

"Precisely." 

Fred  Starratt  stood  motionless  for  a  moment, 
but  presently  he  began  to  laugh. 

Storch  looked  annoyed,  then  rather  puzzled. 
Fred  took  the  hint  and  fell  silent.  For  the  first 
time  since  his  escape  from  Fairview  he  'was  experi 
encing  the  joy  of  alert  and  sharpened  senses.  He 
had  ceased  to  drift.  From  this  moment  on  he 
would  be  struggling.  And  a  scarcely  repressed  joy 
rose  within  him. 

That  night  Fred  Starratt  did  not  sleep.  His 
mind  was  too  clear,  his  senses  too  alert.  He  was 
like  a  man  coming  suddenly  out  of  a  mist  into  the 
blinding  sunshine  of  some  valley  sheltered  from  the 
sea. 

' '  Does  it  matter  in  the  least  whether  there  is  one 
victim  or  six?" 

He  repeated  S torch's  question  over  and  over 
again.  Yes,  it  did  matter — why,  he  could  not  have 
said.  But  even  in  a  vague  way  there  had  been  a 
certain  point  in  winging  Hilmer.  Hilmer  had 
grown  to  be  more  and  more  an  impersonal  effigy 
upon  which  one  could  spew  forth  maliceyand  be  for 
ever  at  peace.  He  had  fancied,  too,  that  Hilmer 
was  his  enemy.  Yet,  Hilmer  had  done  nothing 
more  than  harry  him.  It  was  Storch  who  had  cap 
tured  him  completely. 


BROKEN   TO   THE  PLOW  273 

It  was  not  that  Storch  was  unable  to  discover  a 
score  of  men  ready  and  willing  to  murder  Hilmer, 
but  he  was  finding  an  ironic  diversion  in  shoving  a 
weary  soul  to  the  brink.  He  liked  to  confirm  his 
faith  in  the  power  of  sorrow  and  misery  and  bitter 
ness  ...  he  liked  to  triumph  over  that  healing  curse 
of  indifference  which  time  accomplished  with  such 
subtlety.  He  took  a  delight  in  cutting  the  heart 
and  soul  out  of  his  victims  and  reducing  them 
to  puppets  stuffed  with  sawdust,  answering  the 
slightest  pressure  of  his  hands.  How  completely 
Fred  Starratt  understood  all  this  now !  And  in  the 
blinding  flash  of  this  realization  he  saw  also  the 
hidden  spring  that  had  answered  Storch's  pressure. 
Storch  may  have  been  prodding  for  rancor,  but  he 
really  had  touched  the  mainspring  of  all  false  and 
empty  achievement — vanity. 

"  Losing  a  wife  isn't  of  such  moment .  .  .  but  to  be 
laughed  at — that  is  another  matter!" 

The  words  with  which  Storch  had  held  him  up 
to  the  scorn  of  the  crowd  swept  him  now  with  their 
real  significance.  He  had  been  afraid  to  seem 
uncourageous. 

Thus  also  had  Mrs.  Hilmer  prodded  him  with  her 
sly  "What  do  men  do  in  such  cases?" 

Thus,  also,  had  the  terrible  realization  of  his  love 
for  Sylvia  Molineaux  been  turned  to  false  account 
with  a  wish  to  still  the  stinging  wounds  of  pride 
forever. 

He  had  made  just  such  empty  gestures  when  he 
had  battled  for  an  increase  in  salary,  using  Kilmer's 


274  BROKEN   TO   THE  PLOW 

weapons  instead  of  his  own,  and  again  when  he 
had  committed  himself  to  Fairview  with  such  a 
theatrical  flourish.  He  had  performed  then,  he 
was  performing  now,  with  an  eye  to  his  audience. 
And  his  audience  had  done  then,  and  was  doing 
now,  what  it  always  did — treated  him  with  the 
scorn  men  feel  for  any  and  all  who  play  down  to 
them. 

Already  Storch  was  sneering  with  the  contempt 
of  a  man  too  sure  of  his  power.  He  would  not 
have  risked  the  details  of  his  plan  otherwise.  And 
deep  down  Fred  Starratt  knew  that  the  first  duty 
to  his  soul  was  to  be  rid  of  Storch  at  any  cost — 
after  that,  perhaps,  it  would  not  matter  whether 
he  had  one  or  six  or  a  hundred  victims  marked  for 
destruction.  He  was  afraid  of  Storch  and  he  had 
now  to  prove  his  courage  to  himself. 

It  was  at  the  blackest  hour  before  dawn  that  this 
realization  grew  to  full  stature.  He  raised  himself 
upon  his  elbow,  listening  to  the  heavy  breathing  of 
Storch.  He  rose  cautiously.  Now  was  his  chance. 
He  would  escape  while  his  conviction  was  still 
glistening  with  the  freshness  of  crystallization. 
Moving  with  a  catlike  tread  toward  the  door,  he 
put  his  hand  upon  the  knob.  It  turned  noisily. 
He  heard  Storch  leap  to  his  feet.  He  stood  quite 
still  until  Storch  came  up  to  him. 

"Go  back  to  bed  .  .  .  where  you  belong!" 
Storch  was  commanding,  coolly,  with  a  shade  of 
menace  in  his  voice. 

He   shuffled   back   to   his   couch.     He   was   no 


BROKEN   TO   THE  PLOW  275 

longer  afraid  of  Storch,   but  a  certain  craftiness 
suddenly  possessed  him. 

Presently  he  heard  a  key  turn  and  he  felt  himself 
to  be  completely  in  the  hands  of  his  jailer.  Yet 
the  locked  door  became  at  once  the  symbol  of  both 
Storch' s  strength  and  weakness.  Storch  was  de 
termined  to  have  either  his  body  or  his  soul.  And, 
at  that  moment,  Fred  Starratt  made  his  choice. 

Next  morning  Storch  was  up  early  and  bustling 
about  with  unusual  clatter. 

"Get  up!"  he  cried,  gayly,  to  Fred.  "Do  you 
realize  this  is  Friday?  .  .  .  There  are  a  thousand 
details  to  attend  to." 

Fred  pretended  to  find  Storch's  manner  infectious. 
He  had  never  seen  anyone  so  eager,  so  thrilling  with 
anticipation. 

"I've  got  to  buy  you  a  new  outfit  complete," 
Storch  went  on,  filling  the  coffeepot  with  water. 
"And  you  must  be  shaved  and  shorn  and  made 
human-looking  again.  Rags  are  well  enough  to 
wrap  discontent  in  ...  but  one  should  have  a  dif 
ferent  make-up  for  achievement.  .  .  .  What  was  the 
matter  last  night?" 

"Oh,  a  bit  of  panic,  I  guess,"  Fred  returned,  non 
chalantly.  "But  I'm  all  right  this  morning." 

Storch  rubbed  his  hands  in  satisfaction,  and  he 
smiled  continually. 

They  went  out  shortly  after  nine  o'clock  and  in 
San  Francisco's  embryo  ghetto  at  McAllister  and 
Fillmore  streets  they  bought  a  decent-looking  misfit 


276  BROKEN   TO   THE  PLOW 

suit  and  a  pair  of  second-hand  shoes,  to  say  nothing 
of  a  bargain  in  shirts.  A  visit  to  a  neighboring 
barber  followed.  Storch  permitted  Fred  to  enter 
the  shop  alone,  but  he  stood  upon  the  corner  and 
waited. 

When  the  barber  finished,  Fred  was  startled. 
Standing  before  the  mirror  he  gazed  at  his  smooth- 
shaven  cheek  again  and  trembled.  It  was  like  a 
resurrection.  Even  Storch  was  startled.  Fred 
caught  a  suggestion  of  doubt  in  the  gaze  his  jailer 
threw  at  him.  It  was  almost  as  if  Storch  said: 

"You  are  not  the  man  I  thought  you." 

After  that  Fred  had  a  sense  that  Storch  watched 
him  more  narrowly.  Impulses  toward  forcing  the 
issue  at  once  assailed  Fred,  but  he  was  too  uncer 
tain  as  to  the  outcome.  He  decided  that  the  safest 
thing  was  to  wait  until  the  very  last  moment,  trying 
to  prolong  the  issue  until  it  would  be  too  late  for 
Storch  to  lay  other  plans. 

They  went  back  to  the  shack  for  a  bite  of  lunch. 
After  they  had  eaten,  Fred  put  on  his  new  clothes. 
He  felt  now  completely  cut  off  from  the  cankerous 
life  which  had  been  so  deliberately  eating  its  way 
into  his  philosophy.  Could  it  be  possible  that 
clothes  did  in  some  mysterious  way  make  the  man  ? 
Would  his  unkempt  beard  and  gaping  shoes  and 
tattered  clothing  have  kept  him  nearer  the  path  of 
violence? 

A  little  after  three  o'clock  in  the  afternoon  a 
man  came  to  the  door  and  handed  Storch  a  care 
fully  wrapped  package.  They  did  not  exchange  a 


BROKEN  TO   THE  PLOW  277 

word.  Storch  took  the  package  and  stowed  it 
away  in  a  corner,  covering  it  with  a  ragged  quilt. 

"That  is  the  bomb ! "  flashed  through  Fred's  mind. 

From  that  moment  on  this  suggestive  corner  of 
the  room  was  filled  with  a  mysterious  fascination. 
It  was  like  living  on  the  edge  of  a  volcano. 

Later  in  the  day  he  said  to  Storch : 

"Are  you  sure  the  maker  of  that  bomb  was 
skillful?" 

Storch  bared  his  green  teeth. 

"One  is  sure  of  nothing!"  he  snapped  back. 

Fred  tried  to  appear  nonchalant.  "Aren't  you 
rather  bold,  having  this  thing  delivered  in  broad 
daylight?" 

"What  have  we  to  fear?" 

"I  thought  we  were  being  watched." 

Storch  threw  back  his  head  and  roared  with 
laughter.  "You  have  been  watched  ...  if  that's 
what  you  mean.  I  never  believe  in  taking  any 
unnecessary  chances." 

Fred  made  no  reply.  But  a  certain  contempt 
for  Storch  that  hitherto  had  been  lacking  rose  within 
him.  He  had  always  fancied  certain  elements  of 
bigness  in  this  man  in  spite  of  his  fanaticism. 
Suddenly  he  was  conscious  that  his  silence  had 
evoked  a  subtle  uneasiness  in  Storch.  At  this  mo 
ment  he  laughed  heartily  himself  as  he  rose  from 
his  seat,  slapping  Storch  violently  on  the  back 
as  he  cried: 

"Upon  my  word,  Storch,  you're  a  master  hand! 
No  matter  what  happens  now,  at  least  I'll  have  the 


2  78  BROKEN   TO   THE  PLOW 

satisfaction  of  knowing  that  I  was  perfectly  stage- 
managed." 

They  kept  close  to  the  house  until  nearly  mid 
night.  At  a  few  moments  to  twelve  S torch  drew  a 
flask  of  smuggled  brandy  from  his  hip  pocket. 

"Here,  take  a  good  drink!"  he  said,  passing  the 
bottle  to  Fred. 

Fred  did  as  he  was  bidden.     S  torch  followed  suit. 

"Would  you  like  a  turn  in  the  open?"  Storch 
inquired,  not  unkindly. 

"Yes,"  Fred  assented. 

They  put  on  their  hats.  When  they  were  outside 
Storch  made  a  little  gesture  of  surrender.  "You 
lead  .  .  .  I'll  follow,"  he  said,  indulgently. 

The  night  was  breathless — still  touched  with  the 
vagrant  warmth  of  an  opulent  April  day.  The 
spring  of  blossoming  acacias  was  over,  but  an  even 
fuller  harvest  of  seasonal  unfolding  was  sweeping 
the  town.  A  fragrant  east  wind  was  flooding  in 
from  the  blossom-starred  valleys,  and  vacant  lots 
yielded  up  a  scent  of  cool,  green  grass.  A  soul- 
healing  quality  released  itself  from  the  heavily 
scented  air — hidden  and  mysterious  beauties  of 
both  body  and  spirit  that  sent  little  thrills  through 
Fred  Starratt.  He  had  never  been  wrapped  in  a 
more  exquisite  melancholy — not  even  during  the 
rain-raked  days  at  Fairview.  He  knew  that 
Storch  was  by  his  side,  but,  for  the  moment,  this 
sinister  personality  seemed  to  lose  its  power  and  he 
felt  Monet  near  him.  It  was  as  it  had  been  during 
those  days  upon  Storch 's  couch  with  death  beckon- 


BROKEN   TO   THE  PLOW  279 

ing — the  nearer  he  approached  the  dead  line,  the 
more  distinctly  he  saw  Monet.  To-night  his 
vision  was  clouded,  but  a  keener  intuition  gave  him 
the  sense  of  Monet's  presence.  He  knew  that  he 
was  standing  close  to  another  brink. 

For  a  time  he  surrendered  completely  to  this 
luxury  of  feeling,  as  if  it  strengthened  him  to  find 
stark  reality  threaded  with  so  much  haunting 
beauty.  But  he  discovered  himself  suddenly  yearn 
ing  for  the  poetry  of  life  rather  than  the  poetry  of 
death.  He  wanted  to  live,  realizing  completely 
that  to-morrow  might  seal  everything.  He  was  not 
afraid,  but  he  was  alive,  very  much  alive — so  alive 
that  he  found  himself  rising  triumphant  from  sorrow 
and  shame  and  disillusionment. 

He  came  out  of  his  musings  with  a  realization 
that  Storch  was  regarding  him  with  that  puzzled 
air  which  his  moods  were  beginning  to  evoke. 
And  almost  at  the  same  time  he  was  conscious  that 
their  feet  were  planted  upon  that  selfsame  corner 
past  which  Ginger  walked  at  midnight.  He  put  a 
hand  on  Storch 's  shoulder. 

"Let  us  wait  here  a  few  moments,"  he  said.  "I 
am  feeling  a  little  tired." 

A  newsboy  bellowing  the  latest  edition  of  the 
paper  broke  an  unusual  and  almost  profound 
stillness. 

"There  doesn't  seem  to  be  many  people  about 
to-night,"  Fred  observed,  casually. 

Storch  sneered.  "To-day  is  Good  Friday,  I  be 
lieve.  .  .  .  Everyone  has  grown  suddenly  pious." 


280  BROKEN   TO   THE  PLOW 

Fred  turned  his  attention  to  the  windows  of  a 
tawdry  candy  shop,  filled  with  unhealthy -looking 
chocolates  and  chromatic  sweets.  He  was  wonder 
ing  whether  Ginger  would  pass  again  to-night. 
His  musings  were  answered  by  the  suggestive 
pressure  of  Storch's  hand  on  his. 

"There's  a  skirt  on  the  Rialto,  anyway,"  Storch 
was  saying,  with  disdain. 

Fred  kept  his  gaze  fixed  upon  the  candy-shop 
window.  He  was  afraid  to  look  up.  Could  it  be 
that  Ginger  was  passing  before  him,  perhaps  for 
the  last  time?  He  caught  the  vague  reflection  of  a 
feminine  form  in  the  plate-glass  window.  A  surge 
of  relief  swept  him — at  least  she  was  alone! 

"She's  looking  back!"  Storch  volunteered. 

Fred  turned.  The  woman  had  gained  the  door 
way  of  the  place  where  she  lodged  and  she  was 
standing  with  an  air  of  inconsequence  as  if  she  had 
nothing  of  any  purpose  on  her  mind  except  an  ap 
preciation  of  the  night's  dark  beauty.  He  looked 
at  her  steadily  ...  It  was  Ginger ! 

She  continued  to  stand,  immobile,  wrapped  in  the 
sinister  patience  of  her  calling.  Fred  could  not 
take  his  eyes  from  her. 

"She's  waiting  for  you,"  Storch  said. 

Fred  smiled  wanly. 

"Do  you  want  to  go?  ...  If  you  do  I'll  wait — 
here!"  " 

Fred  tried  to  conceal  his  conflicting  emotions. 
He  did  not  want  to  betray  his  surprise  at  Storch's 
sudden  and  irrational  indiscretion. 


BROKEN  TO   THE  PLOW  281 

"Well,  if  you  don't  mind,"  he  began  to  flounder, 
"I'll—" 

Storch  gave  him  a  contemptuous  shove.  "Go 
on  ...  go  on!"  he  cried,  almost  impatiently,  and 
the  next  moment  Fred  Starratt  found  himself  at 
Ginger's  side.  .  .  .  For  an  instant  she  stood  trans 
fixed  as  she  lifted  her  eyes  to  his. 

"Don't  scream!"  he  commanded  between  his 
locked  lips.  "I  don't  want  that  man  to  know 
that—" 

She  released  her  breath  sharply.  "Shall  we  go 
in?"  she  whispered. 

He  nodded.  Storch  was  pretending  to  be  other 
wise  absorbed,  but  Fred  knew  that  he  had  been 
intent  on  their  pantomime. 

Her  room  was  bare,  pitifully  bare,  swept  clean 
of  all  the  tawdry  fripperies  that  one  might  expect 
from  such  an  environment  and  circumstance. 
She  motioned  him  wearily  to  an  uncompromising 
chair,  standing  herself  with  an  air  of  profound 
resignation  as  she  leaned  against  the  cheaply 
varnished  bureau. 

"Is  this  the  first  time — "  she  began,  and  stopped 
short. 

"No  .  .  .  I've  watched  you  every  night  for  nearly 
two  weeks." 

"What  was  the  idea?"  she  threw  out,  with  an  air 
of  banter. 

He  stood  up  suddenly.  "I  wanted  to  see  how 
much  I  could  stand,"  he  answered. 


282  BROKEN   TO   THE  PLOW 

She  closed  her  eyes  for  a  moment  .  .  .  her  im 
mobility  was  full  of  tremulous  fear  and  hope. 

"Ah!"  she  said,  finally.  "So  you  did  care,  after 
all!" 

"Yes  .  .  .  when  it  was  too  late." 

She  crossed  over  to  him,  putting  one  wan  finger 
on  his  trembling  lips  in  protest.  She  did  not  speak, 
but  he  read  the  thrilling  simplicity  of  her  silence 
completely.  "Love  is  never  too  late!"  was  what 
her  eloquent  gesture  implied. 

He  thrust  her  forward  at  arm's  length,  searching 
her  eyes.  ' '  You  are  right, ' '  he  said,  slowly.  ' '  And 
yet  it  can  be  bitter!" 

She  released  herself  gently.  "You  shouldn't 
have  watched  me  like  that  ...  it  wasn't  fair." 

"I  didn't  think  you  would  ever  know.  .  .  .  And 
that  first  night  I  didn't  intend  to  watch  .  .  .  not 
really.  After  that  it  got  to  be  habit.  .  .  .  You've 
no  idea  the  capacity  for  suffering  an  unhappy  man 
can  acquire." 

She  took  off  her  hat  and  flung  it  on  the  bed. 
"What  made  you  follow  me  to-night?" 

"You  came  out  of  a  clear  sky  .  .  .  when  I  needed 
you  most ...  as  you  have  always  done.  ...  I  didn't 
think  I  could  ever  escape  that  man  waiting  for  me 
below — not  even  for  an  instant.  .  .  .  To-morrow,  at 
this  time,  I  may  be  dead  ...  or  worse." 

"Dead?" 

"To-morrow,  at  noon,  I'm  scheduled  to  blow  up 
Axel  Hilmer.  .  .  .  There  will  be  five  others  in  the 
party  .  .  .  my  wife  and  his  among  them." 


BROKEN   TO   THE  PLOW  283 

Her  body  was  rigid  .  .  .  only  her  lips  moved. 
"You  are  going  to  do  it?" 

"No." 

She  passed  a  fluttering  hand  over  her  forehead. 
"But  you  spoke  of  death  ..." 

He  smiled  bitterly.  "Either  I  shall  be  dead — 
or  the  man  waiting  for  me  on  the  street  corner.  .  .  . 
I  shall  not  tell  him  my  decision  until  the  last 
moment.  I  don't  want  to  give  him  the  chance  to 
work  in  an  understudy  or  complete  the  job  himself. 
.  .  .  Will  you  go  to  Hilmer  to-morrow  and  warn 
him?  ...  He  arrives  from  the  south  at  the  Third 
and  Townsend  depot  somewhere  around  eleven 
o'clock.  Advise  him  to  postpone  the  launching. 
And  have  the  approaches  to  the  shipyards  combed 
for  radicals.  .  .  .  Let  them  watch  particularly  for  a 
man  with  a  kodak  on  the  roof  of  the  stores  opposite 
the  north  gate." 

She  picked  up  her  hat  quickly.  "I'll  go  out  now 
and  warn  the  police  .  .  .  indirectly.  I  have  ways, 
you  know." 

He  put  out  a  restraining  hand.  "No  .  .  .  that's 
risky.  My  friend  Storch  has  spies  everywhere. 
He's  giving  me  a  little  rope  here  ...  he  may  be 
waiting  just  to  see  how  foolishly  I  use  it.  If  you 
lie  low  until  to-morrow  there  will  be  less  of  a  chance 
of  things  going  wrong.  .  .  .  Besides,  I  owe  this  man 
something.  He's  fed  and  sheltered  me.  I'm  going 
to  give  him  an  even  break.  You  would  do  that 
much,  I'm  sure." 

She  threw  her  arms  suddenly  about  him.     "Let 


284  BROKEN   TO   THE  PLOW 

me  go  down  to  him,"  she  whispered.  "Perhaps 
I  can  persuade  him.  Maybe  he'll  go  away,  then, 
and  leave  you  in  peace.'* 

He  stroked  her  hair.  "No,  I  can't  escape  him 
now.  Sooner  or  later  he  would  get  me.  You 
don't  understand  his  power.  All  my  life  I've 
dodged  issues.  But  now  I've  run  up  against  a 
stone  wall.  Either  I  scale  it  or  I  break  my  neck 
in  the  attempt." 

She  shivered  as  if  his  touch  filled  her  with  an 
exquisite  fear  as  she  drew  away. 

"I'm  wondering  if  you  are  quite  real,"  she  said, 
wistfully.  "Sometimes  I've  thought  of  you  as 
dead,  and,  again,  it  didn't  seem  possible.  .  .  .  Always 
at  night  upon  the  street  I've  really  looked  for  you. 
In  every  face  that  stared  at  me  I  had  a  hope  that 
your  eyes  would  answer  mine.  ...  I  think  I've 
looked  for  you  all  my  life.  ...  It  isn't  always  neces 
sity  that  drives  a  woman  to  the  streets.  .  .  .  Some 
times  it  is  the  search  for  happiness.  ...  I  suppose 
you  can't  understand  that.  ..." 

"I  understand  anything  you  tell  me  now!" 

She  went  over  to  him  again  and  took  his  hand. 
"You  are  real,  aren't  you?  .  .  .  Because  I  couldn't 
bear  it  ...  if  I  were  to  wake  up  and  find  this  all  a 
dream.  .  .  .  Nothing  else  matters  .  .  .  nothing  in  my 
whole  life  .  .  .  but  this  moment.  And  when  it  is 
over  nothing  will  ever  matter  .  .  .  again." 

He  sat  there  stroking  her  hand  foolishly.  There 
were  no  words  with  which  to  answer  her.  .  .  . 
Presently  she  put  her  lips  close  to  his  and  he  kissed 


BROKEN   TO   THE  PLOW  285 

her,  and  he  knew  then  that  only  a  woman  who 
had  tasted  the  bitter  wormwood  of  infamy  could 
put  such  purity  into  a  kiss.  How  many  times  she 
must  have  hungered  for  this  moment !  How  many 
times  must  she  have  felt  her  soul  rising  to  her  lips 
only  to  find  it  betrayed ! 

He  loved  her  for  her  words  and  he  loved  her  for 
her  silence.  Once  he  would  have  sat  waiting 
passionately  for  her  to  defend  herself.  He  would 
have  been  tricked  into  believing  that  any  course 
of  action  could  be  justified.  But  she  brought  no 
charges,  she  placed  no  blame,  she  offered  no  excuse. 
"It  isn't  always  necessity  that  drives  a  woman  to 
the  streets ! "  It  took  a  great  soul  to  be  that  honest. 
She  might  have  reproached  him,  too,  for  his  neglect 
of  her — for  his  fear  to  take  his  happiness  on  any 
terms.  But  all  she  had  said  was,  "You  shouldn't 
have  watched  me  like  that  ...  it  wasn't  fair." 

He  rose,  finally,  shaking  himself  into  the  world 
of  reality  again. 

"I  must  be  going  now,"  he  said,  quietly.  "Storch 
will  begin  to  be  impatient." 

She  picked  a  gilt  hairpin  from  the  floor.  "Let 
me  see  if  I've  got  everything  straight.  To-morrow 
at  eleven  o'clock  I  am  to  see  Hilmer  and  tell  him 
to  postpone  the  launching.  And  to  watch  at  the 
north  gate  for  a  man  with  a  kodak.  .  .  .  And 
then?" 

He  reached  for  his  hat.  "If  you  do  not  hear 
from  me  you  might  come  and  look  me  up.  I'll 
be  at  Storch  cottage  on  Rincon  Hill  ...  at  the  foot 

19 


286  BROKEN   TO   THE  PLOW 

of  Second  Street.  Anyone  about  can  tell  you 
which  house  is  his." 

Her  lips  were  an  ashen  gray.  "You  mean  you'll 
be  there  .  .  .  dead?  " 

"If  you  are  afraid  ..." 

"Afraid!"     She  drew  herself  up  proudly. 

' '  Well . . .  there  is  danger  for  you,  too. ...  I  should 
have  thought  of  that!" 

"You  do  not  understand  even  now."  She  went 
and  stood  close  to  him.  "I  love  you  .  .  .  can't 
you  realize  that  ? ' ' 

He  felt  suddenly  abashed,  as  if  he  stood  convicted 
of  being  a  cup  too  shallow  to  hold  her  outpouring. 

"Good-by,"  he  whispered. 

She  closed  her  eyes,  lifting  her  brow  for  his 
waiting  kiss.  The  heavy  perfume  of  her  hair 
seemed  to  draw  his  soul  to  a  prodigal  outpouring. 
He  found  her  lips  again,  clasping  her  close. 

"Good-by,"  he  heard  her  answer. 

And  at  that  moment  he  felt  the  mysterious  Pres 
ence  that  had  swept  so  close  to  him  on  that  heart 
breaking  Christmas  Eve  at  Fairview. 


CHAPTER  XXII 

TORCH  was  standing  at  the  lodging-house  door 
when  Fred  stepped  into  the  street. 

"Well,  what  now?"  Storch  inquired,  with  mock 
politeness. 

"Let's  go  home!"  Fred  returned,  emphatically. 

Almost  as  soon  as  the  phrase  had  escaped  him 
he  had  a  sense  of  its  grotesqueness.  Home!  Yes, 
he  had  to  admit  that  he  felt  a  certain  affection  for 
that  huddled  room  which  had  witnessed  so  much 
spiritual  travail.  Somehow  its  dusty  rafters  seemed 
saturated  with  a  human  quality,  as  if  they  had 
imprisoned  all  the  perverse  longings  and  bitter 
griefs  of  the  company  that  once  sat  in  the  dim 
lamplight  and  chanted  their  litany  of  hate.  He 
never  really  had  been  a  part  of  this  company  ...  he 
never  really  had  been  a  part  of  any  company. 
At  the  office  of  Ford,  Wetherbee  &  Co.,  at  Fairview, 
at  Storch 's  gatherings,  he  had  mingled  with  his 
fellow-men  amiably  or  tolerantly  or  contemptuously, 
as  the  case  might  be,  but  never  with  sympathy  or 
understanding.  He  knew  now  the  reason — he 
always  had  judged  them,  even  to  the  last  moment, 
using  the  uncompromising  foot  rule  of  prejudice, 
inherent  or  acquired.  In  the  old  days  he  had 
thought  of  these  prejudices  as  standards,  mistaking 


288  BROKEN   TO   THE  PLOW 

aversions  for  principles.  He  had  tricked  his  loves, 
his  hates,  his  preferences  in  a  masquerade  of 
pretenses  ...  he  had  labels  for  everybody  and  he 
pigeonholed  them  with  the  utmost  promptitude. 
A  man  was  a  murderer  or  a  saint  or  a  bricklayer, 
and  he  was  nothing  else.  But  at  this  moment, 
standing  in  the  light-flooded  entrance  to  Ginger's 
lodgings,  waiting  for  Storch  to  lead  him  back  to  his 
figurative  cell,  he  knew  that  a  man  could  be  a 
murderer  and  a  saint  and  a  bricklayer  and  a 
thousand  other  things  besides.  And  if  he  were  to 
sit  again  about  that  round  table  of  violence  and 
despair  he  felt  that,  while  he  might  find  much  to 
stir  hatred,  he  would  never  again  give  scope  to 
contempt. 

''You  want  to  go  home,  eh?"  Storch  was  repeat 
ing,  almost  with  a  note  of  obscene  mirth.  "Well, 
our  walk  has  been  quieting,  at  all  events." 

Fred  Starratt  said  nothing.  He  was  not  in  a 
mood  for  talk.  But  when  they  were  inside  the 
house  again,  with  the  cracked  lamp  shade  spilling  a 
tempered  light  about  the  room,  he  turned  to  Storch 
and  said,  quietly: 

"I  sha'n't  go  to  sleep  to-night,  Storch.  .  .  .  You 
throw  yourself  on  the  couch;  I've  kept  you  from 
it  long  enough." 

Storch  made  a  movement  toward  the  door. 

"Don't  bother  to  lock  it  ...  I'm  not  going  to  run 
away.  I'm  not  quite  a  fool!  I  know  that  if  I  did 
try  anything  like  that  I  wouldn't  get  farther  than 
the  edge  of  the  cliff." 


BROKEN   TO   THE  PLOW  289 

Storch  gave  him  a  puzzled  glance.  Fred  could 
see  that  he  was  uncertain,  baffled.  .  .  .  But  in  the 
end  he  turned  away  from  the  unlocked  door  with 
a  shrug. 

Fred  Starratt  smiled  with  inner  satisfaction. 
He  was  glad  that  he  had  come  back  to  give  Storch 
that  "even  break."  It  was  something  of  an 
achievement  to  have  compelled  Storch 's  faith  in  so 
slight  a  thing  as  a  literal  honesty. 

But  Storch  didn't  take  the  couch.  He  threw  his 
coat  aside  and  crept  into  his  wretched  pile  of  quilts 
on  the  floor,  as  he  said : 

'  *  You  may  want  to  snatch  forty  winks  or  so  before 
the  night  is  over." 

There  was  a  warm  note  in  his  voice,  a  bit  of  truant 
fatherliness  that  added  an  element  of  grotesqueness 
to  the  situation.  He  might  have  used  the  same 
words  and  tone  to  a  son  about  to  take  the  highroad 
to  fortune  on  the  morrow.  Or  to  a  lad  determined 
to  start  upon  a  sunrise  fishing  trip,  and  impatient 
of  the  first  flush  of  dawn.  After  all,  it  took  great 
simplicity  to  approach  the  calamitous  moments  of 
life  through  the  channels  of  the  commonplace. 

Presently  Storch  was  snoring  with  the  zest  which 
he  always  brought  to  sleep.  The  night  air  had 
chilled  the  room  past  the  point  of  comfort  and  the 
lamp  seemed  to  make  little  headway  with  its  thin 
volume  of  ascending  warmth.  Fred  wrapped  him 
self  in  a  blanket  and  sat  half  shivering  in  the  gloom. 
At  first,  detached  and  unrelated  thoughts  ran 
through  his  brain,  but  gradually  his  musing  as- 


2  9o  BROKEN   TO   THE  PLOW 

sumed  a  coherence.  To-morrow,  at  this  time,  he 
might  be  either  a  hunted  murderer  or  a  victim 
himself  of  Storch's  desperation.  In  any  case,  he 
would  be  furnishing  the  text  for  many  a  newspaper 
sermon.  How  eagerly  they  would  trace  his  down 
fall,  sniffing  out  the  salacious  bits  for  the  furtive 
enjoyment  of  the  chemically  pure !  For  there  would 
be  salacious  bits.  Had  he  not  spent  the  preceding 
night  in  the  company  of  a  fallen  woman?  One  by 
one  the  facts  would  be  brought  out,  added  to  and 
subtracted  from,  until  the  whole  affair  was  a 
triumph  of  the  transient  story-teller  art,  unrelieved 
by  the  remotest  flash  of  understanding.  They 
would  interview  his  former  employers  first.  Mr. 
Ford  would  say: 

"A  steady,  conscientious,  faithful  employee  until 
he  became  bitten  with  parlor  radicalism." 

And  Brauer,  rather  frightened,  yet  garrulous, 
would  add,  for  want  of  anything  better: 

"An  honest  partner  until  he  began  hitting  the 
booze." 

There  would  be  his  wife,  too.  "I  did  all  I  could. 
Stood  by  him  to  the  last .  .  .  even  when  I  discovered 
that  there  was  another  woman." 

The  authorities  at  Fairview  would  doubtless  add 
their  note  to  the  general  chorus : 

"An  exceptional  patient.  He  seemed  to  have 
planned  deliberately  to  get  our  confidence  and  then 
betray  it.  .  .  .He  was  directly  responsible  for  Felix 
Monet's  death.  Without  his  influence  Monet 
would  never  have  thought  of  escape." 


BROKEN   TO   THE  PLOW  291 

And  in  summing  up,  the  police  would  declare: 

"A  bad  actor  from  the  word  go.  One  of  the  sort 
who  reach  a  certain  point  in  respectability  and  then 
run  amuck.  A  danger  to  the  community  because 
of  his  brains." 

But  what  of  Hilmer?  Fred  Starratt  had  a  feel 
ing  that  Hilmer  would  be  discreet  to  a  point  of 
silence. 

He  could  see  every  printed  phrase  as  plainly  as 
if  he  were  reading  it  all  himself.  How  many  times 
in  the  old  days  had  he  not  perused  some  such  story 
over  his  morning  coffee,  thanking  himself  uncon 
sciously  that  he  was  not  as  other  men!  How  per 
fectly  and  smugly  he  had  played  the  Pharisee  for 
his  own  delight  and  satisfaction!  He  had  not 
bothered  then  to  cry  his  virtues  aloud  in  the 
market  place  or  to  thank  God  publicly  for  his  sal 
vation.  No,  he  was  too  self-sufficient  to  take  the 
trouble  to  advertise  his  worthiness. 

To-night  he  was  on  the  brink  of  disaster,  and 
yet  he  found  himself  shuddering  at  the  colorless 
fate  to  which  his  complacence  might  have  con 
demned  him.  To  have  gone  on  forever  in  a  state  of 
drowsy  contentment  ...  to  have  been  surrounded 
on  all  sides  by  the  thunderous  cataracts  of  life 
and  caught  only  the  pretty  significance  of  rainbows 
through  the  spray  ...  to  have  remained  untouched 
by  any  and  every  primitive  impulse  and  feeling — 
he  could  not  now  imagine  anything  more  tragic. 
And  yet,  to-morrow,  people  would  hold  up  the 
desirability  of  his  former  estate,  pointing  to  him  in 


292  BROKEN   TO   THE  PLOW 

warning  for  the  soft-armed  profit  of  an  oncoming 
generation.  He  saw  himself  as  he  might  have  been, 
going  on  to  the  end  of  time  in  the  service  of  Ford, 
Wetherbee  &  Co.,  rising  from  map  clerk  to  counter 
man,  to  special  agent,  perhaps  even  to  a  manager 
ship,  writing  sharp  or  conciliatory  letters  to  agents 
according  to  their  importance,  trimming  office 
expense  and  shaving  salaries,  heckling  green  office 
boys,  and,  his  workday  ended,  going  home  to 
The  Literary  Digest  and  Helen,  fresh  from  the 
triumphs  of  the  golf  links  or  the  card  table.  Yes, 
no  doubt  Helen  would  have  matched  his  own  rise  in 
fortune  with  equal  gentility.  Perhaps  he  might 
have  taken  an  hour  between  office  closing  and 
dinner  to  wield  a  golf  club  himself  .  .  .  bringing  back 
a  desirable  guest  to  dinner  or  proposing  through  the 
telephone  to  Helen  that  they  dine  at  the  Palace  or 
St.  Francis.  .  .  .  Yes,  even  at  best  his  imagination 
could  not  do  more  with  the  material  in  hand. 
Indeed,  he  knew  that  he  had  crowded  the  very 
most  that  was  possible  on  so  small  a  canvas. 

This,  then,  had  been  his  unconscious  life  plan,  his 
unvoiced  fate.  Thus  had  he  sketched  it  hazily, 
as  a  teller  of  tales  sketches  the  plot  of  a  story, 
such  and  such  a  sum  being  the  total  of  all  the 
characters  and  circumstances.  But  as  he  had  gone 
on  developing  it,  suddenly  a  new  character  had 
appeared  to  change  the  final  figures — a  wrench 
thrown  into  the  wheel  of  continuity  ...  a  wrench 
that  bore  the  name  of  Axel  Hilmer.  ...  He  felt  no 
bitterness  now  for  the  man.  Had  he  ever  felt  it? 


BROKEN   TO   THE  PLOW  293 

Axel  Hilmer  had  long  ceased  to  be  a  living  per 
sonality  to  Fred  Starratt.  Instead,  he  had  taken  on 
almost  the  significance  of  a  strange  divinity  ...  an 
eternal  questioner.  At  their  very  first  meeting  he 
had  started  the  ferment  in  Fred  Starratt 's  soul 
with  the  directness  of  his  interrogations.  He  was 
not  a  man  who  declared  his  own  faiths  ...  he  merely 
asked  you  to  prove  yours.  The  questions  he  had 
asked  Fred  Starratt  on  that  first  night  had  been 
insignificant  in  themselves.  Why  was  it  ridiculous 
for  a  butcher  to  want  an  eight-hour  day?  Why 
should  one  have  the  firm's  interest  at  heart?  And 
yet  the  sparks  from  such  verbal  flint  stones  had 
kindled  a  revolt  that  had  wrecked  Fred  Starratt 's 
complacence. 

One's  sight  becomes  strengthened  to  destructive 
ideas  by  gradual  perception.  And  ideas  of  any 
kind  are  destructive  flashed  on  consciousness  un 
awares.  Fred  had  thought  at  first  that  Hilmer 
had  but  opened  his  eyes  to  things  standing  in  his 
range  of  vision,  when,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  Hilmer 
had  merely  loaned  him  his  spectacles.  Everything 
he  had  seen  from  that  first  moment  had  been 
through  Kilmer's  medium.  A  wise  man  would  have 
proceeded  slowly,  building  himself  up  for  the 
struggle.  But  Fred  Starratt  had  had  all  the  wistful 
enthusiasm  of  a  fool  seeking  to  achieve  power 
overnight.  Yes,  only  a  fool  could  have  been 
ashamed  of  his  heritage.  And  when  Hilmer  had 
placed  him  calmly  in  the  ranks  of  the  middle  class 
the  wine  of  content  had  turned  suddenly  sour.  A 


294  BROKEN   TO   THE  PLOW 

year  ago  his  efforts  were  being  directed  at  escape 
from  so  contemptuous  a  characterization;  to-night 
he  was  content  to  acknowledge  the  impeachment  and 
find  a  pride  in  the  circumstance.  And,  as  he  sat 
there  shivering  in  the  gloom  of  Storch's  cracked 
lamp,  he  had  a  vision  of  this  scorned  company  to 
which  he  unquestionably  belonged,  sterile  and  bar 
ren  in  the  glare  of  accepted  standards,  broken  gradu 
ally  by  the  plowshare  of  disillusionment  and  har 
rowed  to  great  potentialities  by  a  deeper  sense  of 
their  faiths  and  needs.  Yes,  he  had  a  conviction  that 
what  could  take  place  in  one  soul  could  take  place 
in  the  soul  of  the  mass  ...  he  had  not  changed  his 
standards  so  much  as  he  had  proved  them.  The 
shape  and  color  and  perfume  of  love  and  loyalty 
and  faith  had  not  been  altered  for  him,  but  he  could 
discover  their  blossoming  among  the  shadowy 
places. 

At  a  black  hour,  before  the  first  greenish  glow 
was  quickening  the  east,  he  tiptoed  and  stood  gaz 
ing  down  at  S torch.  He  had  never  seen  a  face  more 
placid  and  untroubled.  He  felt  that  any  man  must 
have  an  extraordinary  sense  of  self -righteousness  to 
yield  so  completely  to  serenity  in  the  face  of  de 
liberate  crime.  But  Storch  was  of  the  stuff  of 
which  all  fanatics  were  made.  Ends  to  him  al 
ways  justified  means.  Of  such  were  the  Inquisitors 
of  Spain,  the  Puritans  of  the  Reformation,  the  rad 
icals  of  to-day.  They  had  neither  doubts  nor  fears 
nor  pity,  and  the  helmets  of  their  faith  were  a 
screen  behind  which  they  hid  their  overweening 


BROKEN  TO   THE  PLOW  295 

egotism.  They  were  ever  seeking  to  entrap  hu 
manity  and  humanity  was  forever  in  the  end  eluding 
them.  And  if  Hilmer  were  the  eternal  questioner 
made  flesh,  the  gamekeeper  beating  the  furtive 
birds  from  the  brush,  this  man  Storch  was  the 
eternal  hunter,  at  once  patient  and  relentless  for 
his  quarry. 

And  now  the  hunter  slept  with  a  smile  on  his  lips. 
Of  what  could  he  be  dreaming?  Was  it  possible 
to  dream  of  smile-fashioning  themes  with  potential 
destruction  within  a  stone's  throw?  In  a  corner 
of  this  room,  in  a  well-packed  square  case,  reposed 
the  force  that,  once  set  in  motion  at  the  proper  or 
miscalculated  moment,  could  hurl  both  Storch  and 
Fred  Starratt  to  eternity,  and  yet  Storch  slept  un 
disturbed.  Well,  was  not  the  broader  canvas  of 
life  full  of  just  such  profound  faith  or  profound 
indifference?  Did  not  society  itself  sleep  with  the 
repressed  hatreds  of  the  submerged  waiting  their 
appointed  season?  And  while  new  worlds  flew 
flaming  from  the  wheel  of  creation,  and  old  ones 
died  in  an  eye's  twinkling,  did  not  the  race  dream 
on  contemptuous  of  the  changes  which  lurked  in  the 
restless  heavens?  Yes,  the  meanest  coward  in 
existence  had  his  innate  courage  and  there  was  a 
note  of  bravery  in  life  on  any  terms. 

Fred  stood  before  Storch's  sleeping  form  a  long 
time,  and  all  manner  of  impulses  stirred  him. 
There  was  even  a  moment  when  it  came  to  him 
that  he  might  fall  upon  his  gaoler  while  he  slept 
and  achieve  a  swift  freedom.  And  every  ignoble 


296  BROKEN  TO   THE  PLOW 

murder  of  legend  or  history  beckoned  him  with 
the  hands  of  red  expediency.  He  ended  by  going 
to  the  door  and  opening  it  cautiously  as  he  had  done 
the  night  before.  But  this  time  the  operation  was 
more  skillful  and  no  warning  click  disturbed  the 
slumberer.  He  crept  out  into  the  night,  down  the 
cliff's  edge,  looking  back  for  the  betraying  shadow  of 
a  hidden  spy.  But  there  seemed  to  be  nothing 
to  block  his  freedom.  A  virginal  moon  was  lan 
guishing  upon  the  western  rim  of  hills  ...  a  solitary 
cock  crew  lustily  .  .  .  occasional  footfalls  floated  up 
from  the  paved  streets  below  ...  a  cart  rumbled 
in  the  gloom.  All  these  noises  of  the  night  were 
extraordinarily  friendly  .  .  .  like  the  smothered 
murmurings  of  a  youth  escaping  from  the  chains 
of  sleep  in  pleasant  dreaming. 

A  swarm  of  platitudes  surging  through  his  brain 
urged  him  to  flight.  But  in  the  end  self-esteem 
gave  him  his  final  cue,  and  he  knew  in  a  flash  how 
futile  would  be  any  truce  with  cowardice.  A 
locked  door  would  have  justified  escape,  but  in  the 
face  of  an  unlatched  threshold  there  was  only  one 
course  conceivable. 

Fred  Starratt  went  back  and  wrapped  himself 
in  his  blanket.  Toward  daylight  S torch  arose 
and  filled  a  pot  with  coffee.  But  neither  spoke  a 
word. 


CHAPTER  XXIII 

AS  Storch  cleared  away  the  primitive  evidences 
of  the  morning  meal  and  stood  before  the 
sink  letting  a  thin  trickle  of  cold  water  wash  clean 
the  cups  he  said : 

"If  we  get  the  ten-o'clock  boat  to  Oakland  we 
will  be  in  plenty  of  time." 

Starratt  rolled  a  cigarette.  "Ah,  then  you  are 
going,  too!" 

"Naturally,"  Storch  replied,  as  he  turned  off  the 
water. 

Fred  began  to  dress  himself  carefully.  Storch 
loaned  him  an  indifferent  razor.  The  shaving 
process  was  slow  but  in  the  end  it  was  accom 
plished.  Fred  was  amazed  at  the  freshness  of  his 
appearance.  Only  once  before  in  his  life  had  he 
deliberately  sat  up  all  night  without  either  the 
desire  or  determination  to  sleep,  and  that  was  on 
that  night  which  now  seemed  so  remote  when  he 
had  felt  the  first  budding  of  Helen's  scorn.  He 
recalled  that  he  had  been  just  as  alert  and  clear- 
minded  on  the  following  morning  as  he  was  now. 
And  just  as  uncertain  as  to  what  the  future  held 
in  store. 

Storch  also  made  a  careful  toilet  —  for  him. 
He  rummaged  for  a  clean  flannel  shirt,  combed  his 


298  BROKEN   TO   THE  PLOW 

reddish  beard,  dusted  off  his  clumsy  boots.  But 
they  were  ready  much  too  soon,  like  a  couple  of 
children  promptly  dressed  for  an  excursion,  im 
patiently  awaiting  the  hour  of  departure.  Of  the 
two,  Storch  evinced  the  more  nervousness.  He 
poked  into  nooks  and  corners  of  the  room  upon  all 
sorts  of  pretended  orderliness.  Fred  sat  and  eyed 
him  calmly — smoking  cigarette  after  cigarette. 
Finally,  Storch  lifted  the  kodak  case  from  its 
hiding  place  and  set  it  on  the  center  table.  Cau 
tiously  he  pried  loose  the  false  top  and  peered  into 
its  depths.  There  followed  a  tense  moment  during 
which  he  bent  in  a  close  inspection  over  its  fascinat 
ing  depths.  Presently  Fred  caught  a  distinct 
ticking  sound,  and  he  knew  that  Storch  had  set 
in  motion  the  clock  upon  which  depended  the 
bomb's  explosion  at  the  appointed  hour.  But 
withal  he  remained  curiously  unmoved. 

The  cry  of  a  belated  newsboy  floated  through  the 
open  front  door.  Storch  went  out  and  bought  a 
paper,  flinging  a  section  of  it  at  Fred.  A  thickly 
headlined  account  of  the  launching  at  the  Hilmer 
yards  occupied  chief  place  on  the  first  page  of  the 
local  news  section.  There  was  a  picture  of  the  hull 
that  had  been  put  through  on  schedule  time  in 
spite  of  strikes  and  lockouts,  and  another  one  of 
Hilmer,  and  a  second  photograph  of  a  woman.  Fred 
looked  twice  before  he  realized  that  the  face  of  his 
wife  was  staring  up  at  him  from  the  printed  sheet. 
Helen  Starratt  was  to  be  the  ship's  sponsor  and 
there  was  a  pretty  and  touching  story  in  this  con- 


BROKEN   TO   THE  PLOW  299 

nection.  It  had  always  been  Mrs.  Kilmer's  ambi 
tion  to  christen  a  seagoing  giant,  and  she  had  been 
chosen  to  act  as  godmother  to  a  huge  oil-tanker 
only  a  year  before,  but  a  serious  accident  had  laid 
her  low.  Now,  though  she  was  unable  to  perform 
the  rite  herself,  she  had  intrusted  her  part  to  her 
faithful  friend,  Mrs.  Starratt.  It  was  to  be  done  by 
proxy,  as  it  were,  with  Mrs.  Hilmer  carried  to  the 
grand  stand,  where  she  was  to  repeat  the  mystic 
formula,  giving  the  ship  a  name  at  the  moment 
when  Helen  Starratt  brought  the  foaming  bottle 
of  champagne  crashing  against  the  vessel's  side. 
The  whole  article,  even  down  to  this  obvious  dash 
of  "sob  stuff,"  was  at  once  Kilmer's  challenge  to 
the  strikers  and  his  appeal  to  the  gallery.  There 
was  a  certain  irony  in  realizing  that  all  these  care 
fully  planned  effects  had  been  seized  upon  for 
Kilmer's  own  undoing.  He  was  working  in  the 
dark,  very  much  as  Fred  Starratt  had  worked 
during  those  heartbreaking  months  when  he  had 
battled  for  place  in  the  business  world.  Then 
Hilmer  had  held  him  in  the  palm  of  his  hand.  Now 
the  situation  was  reversed — he  held  Axel  Kilmer's 
fate  in  his  own  keeping,  and  it  was  his  finger  that 
would  spin  the  wheel  of  destiny.  Any  fool  could 
demand  an  eye  for  an  eye;  so  much  for  so  much 
was  the  cut-and-dried  morality  of  the  market  place. 
It  took  a  poet  to  bestow  a  wage  out  of  all  proportion 
to  the  workday,  to  turn  the  cheek  of  humility  to  the 
blows  of  arrogance,  to  commend  the  extravagant 
gift  of  the  magdalene.  And  it  was  the  poetry  of 


300  BROKEN   TO   THE  PLOW 

life,  after  all,  which  counted.  Fred  Starratt  knew 
that  now.  A  year  ago  he  had  thought  of  poetry 
as  strings  of  high-sounding  words  which  produced  a 
pleasant  mental  reaction,  something  abstract  and 
exotic.  He  had  never  fancied  that  poetry  was  a 
thing  to  be  seen  and  understood  and  lived,  and  that 
such  common  things  as  bread  and  wine  and  love 
and  hatred  were  shot  through  with  the  pure  gold 
of  mystery.  Once,  if  he  had  been  moved  to 
magnanimity  it  would  have  been  through  an  impulse 
of  weak  and  bloodless  sentimentality  .  .  .  now  he 
had  risen  to  generosity  on  the  wings  of  a  supreme 
indifference,  a  magnificent  contempt  for  unessen- 
tials,  a  full-blooded  understanding.  Not  that  he 
had  achieved  a  cold  and  pallid  philosophy  ...  a 
system  of  lukewarm  expediencies.  He  could  still 
be  swept  by  gusts  of  feeling  ...  he  could  even 
risk  his  life  to  preserve  it. 

He  turned  the  pages  of  the  newspaper  over 
mechanically,  reading  word  upon  word  which  held 
not  the  slightest  meaning.  He  felt  Storch's  eyes 
upon  him,  drawn,  no  doubt,  by  a  mixture  of 
subtle  doubts  and  vague  appraisals.  His  thoughts 
flew  to  Ginger.  What  was  she  doing  at  this  mo 
ment?  Was  there  any  chance  of  her  failure? 
For  answer  another  question  shaped  itself:  Had 
she  ever  failed?  Yet,  this  time  she  was  beset  with 
dangers.  And  in  his  imagination  he  saw  her  tread 
ing  the  thin  ice  of  destiny  with  the  same  glorified 
contempt  which  lured  him  to  the  poetical  depths 
of  life.  .  .  .  And  again  Monet  was  at  his  side  .  .  . 


BROKEN   TO   THE  PLOW  301 

vague,  mysterious,  impalpable,  the  essence  of 
things  unseen  but  hoped  for,  the  solved  riddle  made 
spirit,  the  vast  patience  of  eternity  realized.  And 
still  Storch's  restless  eyes  were  fixed  upon  him. 

Presently  he  heard  Storch's  voice  coming  to  his 
ears  out  of  a  friendly  dusk: 

"It's  nine- thirty.  ...  I  guess  we  had  better  be 
moving." 

He  did  not  stir  at  first  ...  he  merely  sat  staring 
at  Storch,  very  much  as  a  man  waking  suddenly 
and  not  yet  alive  to  the  precise  details  of  his 
environment.  "Moving  .  .  .  where?"  he  finally 
inquired. 

Storch  crumpled  the  newspaper  in  his  hand 
viciously.  "Come  .  .  .  you've  been  dreaming!" 
he  flung  out.  "That's  dangerous!" 

Fred  braced  himself  in  his  chair.  "I'm  not  go 
ing,"  he  said,  quietly.  "I've  changed  my  mind!" 

Storch's  mouth  widened,  not  in  a  smile  this  time, 
but  in  a  vicious  snarl.  He  took  out  a  cheap 
watch  from  his  pocket,  glanced  at  it,  and  put  it 
back. 

"It's  just  twenty-five  minutes  to  ten,"  he  said, 
quietly.  "I'll  give  you  five  more  minutes." 

Fred  put  both  his  arms  upon  the  cluttered  table, 
leaning  forward,  as  he  answered : 

' '  Nothing  can  alter  my  decision  now,  Storch.  .  .  . 
You  should  have  known  better  than  to  have 
counted  on  one  of  my  sort.  ...  In  the  end,  you  see, 
my  standards  have  shackled  me." 

20 


302  BROKEN   TO   THE  PLOW 

"Counted  on  your  sort!'*  Storch  laughed  back, 
sarcastically.  "Do  you  suppose  for  one  moment 
that  I  ever  count  on  anyone?  ...  I  like  a  game  of 
chance  .  .  .  that's  why  I  chose  you.  I  like  to 
triumph  in  spite  of  a  poor  hand  .  .  .  and  you  have 
been  in  some  ways  the  poorest  deal  I've  ever  risked 
a  play  on.  But  if  I'd  gotten  you  I'd  have  chuckled 
to  my  dying  day  .  .  .  even  in  spite  of  the  fact  that 
it  would  have  shattered  all  my  theories.  I  catch 
my  fish  upon  the  lowest  and  highest  tides  .  .  .  slack 
water  never  yields  much." 

He  was  rising  to  his  feet.  His  face  was  a  placid 
mask,  but  his  voice  dripped  venom.  Fred  matched 
his  movements  with  equal  quiet. 

"Still  you  did  have  hopes  for  me,"  Fred  threw 
at  him  in  grim  raillery.  "I  may  have  been  the 
poorest  prospect,  but  I  have  been  the  most  un 
certain  also.  .  .  .  You  might  just  as  well  admit 
that." 

He  saw  Storch's  eyes  widen  at  the  arrogance  of 
this  unexpected  thrust. 

"Slack  water  is  always  uncertain,"  Storch  re 
plied,  "unless  you  know  which  turn  in  the  tide  is 
to  follow." 

They  stood  gazing  at  each  other  for  a  fraction  of 
time,  which  seemed  eternity.  And  in  that  swift  and 
yet  prolonged  exchange  of  glances  Fred  Starratt 
read  Storch's  purpose  completely.  .  .  . 

There  followed  a  moment  of  swift  action  in  which 
Storch  made  a  dipt  movement  toward  his  hip 
pocket,  and  in  a  trice  Fred  Starratt  felt  himself 


BROKEN   TO   THE  PLOW  303 

bear  quickly  down  upon  the  shattered  lamp,  grasp 
it  firmly  in  his  two  hands,  and  bring  it  crashing 
against  Storch's  upflung  forehead. 

He  was  not  conscious  of  seeing  Storch  crumple 
over,  but  he  felt  a  thud  shake  the  cluttered  room  to 
its  foundations.  .  .  .  He  went  over  quietly  and 
closed  the  open  door.  Then  he  put  on  his  hat. 
Storch  lay  quite  still  and  an  ugly  red  pool  was 
already  luring  flies  to  a  crimson  feast.  The  floor 
was  covered  with  bits  of  shattered  glass  glistening 
in  the  sun. 

Presently  he  opened  the  door  again.  A  child 
had  crept  up  to  the  doorstep  and  sat  prattling  to 
her  tattered  doll.  He  stepped  aside  so  as  not  to 
disturb  her,  shut  the  door  with  a  sharp  bang,  and 
walked  swiftly  to  the  edge  of  the  cliff.  But  this 
time  he  plunged  down.  He  looked  back  once. 
Not  a  soul  followed  him. 


CHAPTER  XXIV 

HE  was  sitting  on  a  pile  of  lumber  when,  an  hour 
later,  his  thoughts  began  to  run  in  rational 
channels  again.  Before  him  lay  a  patch  of  gray- 
green  bay,  flanked  on  either  side  by  wharves  upon 
which  two  black-hulled  lumber  schooners  were 
disgorging  their  resinous  cargo.  The  strike  of  the 
longshoremen  was  still  in  progress  and  the  Em- 
barcadero  as  good  as  deserted.  Armed  guards 
paraded  before  the  entrance  to  the  docks  and  only 
occasional  idlers  sunned  themselves  and  viewed 
the  silent  and  furtive  loading  of  restive  craft 
straining  at  their  moorings. 

He  began  to  wonder  dimly  whether  he  had  left 
Storch  dead  or  merely  stunned,  and,  granting  either 
alternative,  how  definitely  this  circumstance  would 
halt  the  plot  against  Kilmer's  life.  It  was  conceiv 
able  to  him  now  that  Storch  might  have  provided 
against  the  possibility  of  failure,  given  the  role  of 
assassin  into  the  hands  of  an  understudy,  to  be 
exact.  Suppose  Ginger  should  fail  in  her  warning? 
Not  that  he  doubted  her,  but  there  was  a  chance 
that  she  had  been  hedged  about  with  all  manner  of 
difficulties — perhaps  even  death.  Suddenly  with 
an  arresting  irrelevance  he  thought  of  the  child 
upon  Storch's  doorstep,  hugging  her  doll  dose,  and 


BROKEN   TO   THE  PLOW  305 

as  swiftly  he  remembered  the  black  kodak  case 
upon  the  center  table.  He  wondered  if  the  child 
were  still  sitting  there.  .  .  .  Perhaps,  by  this  time,  a 
swarm  of  children  were  tumbling  about  the  weather- 
beaten  steps.  He  asked  a  passer-by  the  hour. 
Eleven-thirty!  In  fifteen  more  minutes,  if  the 
ticking  clock  within  that  sinister  case  performed  its 
function,  S torch's  dwelling  would  be  tumbling  in 
upon  his  prostrate  body.  And,  in  the  face  of  this, 
children  might  be  prattling  before  the  threshold. 
He  must  go  back  again! 

He  jumped  to  his  feet  and  began  to  run.  In  an 
instant  a  conflagration  of  potential  disasters  leaped 
up  from  the  spark  of  the  immediate  danger.  He 
flew  along  faster,  colliding  with  irate  pedestrians, 
escaping  the  wheels  of  skimming  automobiles.  .  .  . 
Presently  the  familiar  clifl  and  the  tawny  path 
scaling  it  loomed  ahead.  He  began  to  climb  up 
ward,  almost  on  all-fours,  digging  his  finger  nails 
into  the  yellow  clay  in  an  instinctive  effort  to  pull 
himself  forward.  Finally  he  gained  the  top.  .  .  . 
The  street,  somnolent  with  approaching  noon,  was 
deserted — the  child  had  disappeared.  He  recov 
ered  his  whirling  senses  and  looked  again.  This 
time  he  saw  that  the  door  of  the  shack  stood  open. 
He  took  a  step  forward.  A  figure  loomed  in  the 
doorway.  He  shaded  his  eyes  from  the  sun's  glare 
and  narrowed  his  lids.  It  was  a  woman! 

The  unexpectedness  of  this  presence  overwhelmed 
him  as  completely  as  if  he  had  seen  an  apparition. 
For  an  instant  he  did  not  grasp  its  significance. 


3o6  BROKEN   TO   THE  PLOW 

Then,  in  another  moment,  understanding  began  to 
flood  in  upon  him.  He  felt  a  great  weakness  . . .  but 
he  managed  to  make  a  trumpet  with  his  hands,  call 
ing  in  a  voice  that  sounded  remote : 

' '  Come  out !    For  God's  sake,  come  out ! " 

He  saw  the  woman  start  back  in  a  movement  of 
quick  confusion,  and  heard  himself  call  again,  this 
time  with  muffled  agony: 

"Ginger!" 

There  was  a  tremendous  roar  ...  he  felt  a  shower 
of  stones  hitting  him  sharply  in  the  face.  ...  He 
pressed  forward  .  .  .  sheets  of  flame  were  leaping 
greedily  toward  the  sky  and  a  string  of  people 
poured  out  into  the  sun-baked  street. 

At  midnight  Fred  Starratt,  making  his  way 
from  the  outlying  districts  toward  the  center  of  the 
town,  came  out  of  a  mental  turmoil  that  had 
flung  him  about  all  day  in  a  series  of  blind  impulses. 
The  air  was  raucous  with  the  shrill  cry  of  news 
boys  announcing  the  details  of  the  morning's  sensa 
tion.  He  knew  how  the  journalistic  tale  would 
run  without  bothering  to  glimpse  the  headlines. 
At  this  time  it  would  be  made  up  for  the  most 
part  of  vague  speculations  as  to  who  was  the  prime 
mover  of  the  enterprise. 

The  moments  following  the  disaster  were  now 
fathomless,  but  he  fancied  that  he  had  been  out 
wardly  cool,  chilled  into  subconscious  calculation 
by  the  very  violence  of  the  shock.  .  .  .  The  frenzy 
had  come  later  when  he  found  himself  aboard  a 


BROKEN   TO   THE  PLOW  307 

ferryboat  bound  for  Oakland.  He  could  not  dis 
entangle  the  mixed  impulses  which  had  sent  him 
upon  this  irrational  errand,  but  he  remembered  now 
that  a  consuming  desire  to  see  Hilmer  had  possessed 
him.  Perhaps  an  itching  for  revenge  again  had 
sprung  into  life,  perhaps  a  fury  to  release  a  measure 
of  his  scorn  and  contempt,  perhaps  a  mere  curiosity 
to  glimpse  once  more  this  man  whose  armor  of 
arrogance  remained  unpierced.  .  .  .  Whatever  the 
urge,  it  had  keyed  him  to  a  quivering  determination. 
He  had  wondered  what  stupidity  possessed  him 
to  send  Ginger  in  warning  to  a  man  like  Hilmer. 
.  .  .  With  almost  psychic  power  he  had  created  for 
himself  the  scene  at  the  depot  with  Ginger  pouring 
her  tremulous  message  into  contemptuous  ears. 
For  it  was  certain  that  Hilmer  had  been  con 
temptuous.  .  .  .  Afterward,  standing  before  the 
north  gate  of  Kilmer's  shipyards,  a  man  at  his  side 
confirmed  his  intuitions  between  irritating  puffs 
from  a  blackened  pipe: 

"  Nobody  can  double-cross  Hilmer  .  .  .  and  they'd 
better  give  up  trying.  .  .  .  He  said  a  launching  at 
noon  and  it  was  at  noon,  you  can  bet  your  life  on 
that!  .  .  .  They  say  a  woman  tried  to  scare  the  old 
man  this  morning.  .  .  .  He  just  laughed  in  her  face 
and  came  on  over." 

Almost  as  the  man  had  finished  speaking  the 
crowd  surged  forward.  And  in  a  twinkling  Hil- 
mer's  machine  had  swept  past,  leaving  Fred,  trem 
bling  from  head  to  foot,  staring  stupidly  into  a 
cloud  of  dust.  ...  He  had  not  even  glimpsed  the 


308  BROKEN   TO   THE  PLOW 

occupants!  But  his  failure  to  achieve  whatever 
vague  plan  was  buffeting  him  about  drove  him 
back  to  San  Francisco.  His  confused  mind  had 
worked  with  the  rational  capacity  for  details  which 
characterizes  madness.  He  knew  that  Hilmer  must- 
wait  for  the  automobile  ferry  .  .  .  that  the  regular 
passenger  boat  would  reach  the  other  side  at  least 
a  half  hour  in  advance. 

He  had  been  prepared  this  time  for  the  appear 
ance  of  Kilmer's  car.     It  came  off  the  boat  pre 
ceded  by  a  thin  line  of  automobiles,  moving  slowly. 
.  .  .  For  a  moment  he  wondered  how  he  would 
achieve  his  purpose,  and  the  next  thing  he  knew 
he  had  leaped  aboard  the  running  board.  ...  He 
remembered  long  after  that  his  wife  had  given  a 
cry,  that  Mrs.  Hilmer  had  stirred  ever  so  slightly, 
that  Kilmer's  eyes  had  widened.     Then  out  of  a 
tense  moment  of  suppressed  confusion  he  had  heard 
his  wife's  voice  floating  toward  him  as  she  said: 
"Ah,  then  you  were  not  drowned,  after  all!" 
With  amazing  effrontery  he  threw  open  the  door 
and  pressed  down  the  emergency  seat  opposite  her. 
"No  ...  I  swam  out  of  that  black  pool!" 
A  slight  tremor  ran  through  her.     Mrs.  Hilmer 
smiled. 

Recalling  the  scene,  he  remembered  how  out 
wardly  commonplace  were  the  moments  which 
followed.  Even  Hilmer  had  been  surprised  into 
banalities.  Fred  Starratt  might  have  parted  with 
them  but  yesterday,  for  any  indications  to  the 


BROKEN  TO  THE  PLOW  309 

contrary,  and  for  an  instant  he  had  found  all  sense 
of  tragedy  swallowed  up  in  amazement  at  the  pas 
sive  tenacity  of  the  conventions. 

But  sitting  there,  facing  this  trio,  each  busy  with 
his  own  swift  thought,  it  gradually  dawned  upon 
Fred  Starratt  that  now  they  were  afraid  of  him. 
Like  a  captured  and  blinded  Samson  he  was  in  a 
position  to  bring  the  temple  walls  crashing  down 
upon  them  all.  They  might  elect  to  be  silent,  but 
what  a  voice  he  could  raise!  .  .  .  He  had  come  out 
of  a  chuckling  silence  to  hear  Hilmer  saying  between 
almost  shut  teeth: 

"I  suppose  you'll  be  needing  money  now,  Star 
ratt.  .  .  .  Railroad  rates  have  all  been  raised." 

He  felt  at  that  moment  the  same  triumph  as 
when  Storch  had  turned  the  key  in  its  lock.  .  .  . 
Hilmer  always  did  walk  directly  to  his  objective  .  .  . 
but  there  were  times  when  subtleties  had  more 
power.  He  remembered  the  quiet  thrust  of  his 
own  voice  measuring  his  adversary's  expectancy: 

"A  man  in  my  situation  needs  nothing,  Hilmer 
.  .  .  least  of  all  money!" 

He  never  forgot  the  look  of  contempt  which 
Hilmer  threw  at  him  .  .  .  but  this  time  it  had  been 
a  contempt  for  the  unfathomable.  Helen's  face 
was  white;  only  Mrs.  Hilmer  had  continued  to 
smile  ...  a  set,  ghastly,  cruel  smile  of  complete 
satisfaction.  And,  in  the  silence  which  followed, 
it  was  Mrs.  Kilmer's  voice  that  brought  them  all 
back  with  a  start  as  she  said: 

"Well,  here  we  are  .  .  .  home  again!" 


3io  BROKEN   TO   THE  PLOW 

It  was  the  same  voice  that  had  broken  in  upon 
another  tense  situation  months  before  with: 

"What  nice  corn  pudding  this  is,  Mrs.  Starratt. 
.  .  .  Would  you  mind  telling  me  how  you  made  it?" 

Had  they  been  moving  in  a  circle  since  that  fatal 
evening,  Fred  had  found  himself  wondering  ...  or 
had  he  merely  been  dreaming? 

The  scene  which  followed  had  been  unforgetable 
— the  chauffeur  and  Hilmer  lifting  Mrs.  Hilmer  into 
her  wheeled  chair;  Helen  Starratt  coming  forward 
considerately  with  a  steamer  rug  for  the  invalid's 
comfort ;  Fred,  standing  outside  the  pale  of  all  this 
activity  like  a  dreamer  constructing  stage  directions 
for  the  puppets  of  his  imagination.  And  out  of  the 
almost  placid  atmosphere  of  domestic  bustle  the 
voice  of  Mrs.  Hilmer  again  breaking  the  stillness, 
this  time  with  a  cool  and  knifelike  precision  as  she 
said,  turning  her  pale,  icy  eyes  on  Helen  Starratt : 

"My  dear,  your  nurse-girl  days  are  over.  .  .  . 
We've  had  you  a  long  time  and  we  can't  be  too 
selfish — now  that  your  husband  is  back!" 

Could  Fred  ever  wipe  from  his  memory  the 
startled  look  which  had  swept  Helen's  face  as  she 
released  her  hold  on  the  wheeled  chair?  Or  the 
diabolical  content  with  which  Mrs.  Hilmer  settled 
back  as  she  went  on  slowly,  clearly,  as  if  the  steady 
drip  of  her  words  fascinated  her : 

"You  wouldn't  want  to  stay  here  .  .  .  this  is  no 
place  for  lovers.  .  .  .  And,  besides,  there  isn't  room 
for  two!" 


BROKEN   TO   THE  PLOW  311 

Helen's  hands  had  fallen  inertly  at  her  sides  as 
she  stood  facing  Kilmer,  as  if  waiting  for  his 
decision.  But  he  had  made  no  move,  he  merely 
had  returned  her  gaze  in  equal  silence.  At  that 
moment  Mrs.  Kilmer's  clawlike  fingers  closed  over 
her  husband's  mangled  thumb  with  a  clutch  of 
triumph  and  she  had  turned  with  a  painful  twist 
to  dart  her  venomous  scorn  at  Helen.  A  fortnight 
ago  the  doctors  had  given  Mrs.  Kilmer  a  scant  six 
months  of  life.  But  now  Fred  Starratt  knew  that 
she  would  live  as  long  as  her  spirits  had  vengeance 
to  feed  upon. 

Thus  had  the  door  closed  upon  Hilmer  and  his 
crippled  gaoler.  Already  Helen  Starratt  had  gained 
the  street  corner.  Fred  was  seized  with  an  impulse 
to  overtake  her,  but  it  had  died  as  quickly.  There 
was  nothing  he  could  offer  .  .  .  not  even  a  lodging 
for  the  night.  Instead  he  had  turned  and  walked 
briskly  in  an  opposite  direction. 

As  he  drew  nearer  town  the  cries  of  the  newsboys 
grew  more  insistent ...  so  insistent  that  Fred  bought 
a  paper.  By  this  time  they  had  cleared  away  the 
charred  wreckage  of  S torch's  shack,  discovering 
the  secret  which  its  ruins  had  concealed.  He 
found  himself  wondering  how  soon  they  would  link 
him  with  the  still-born  plot  which  had  achieved 
so  much  tragedy  in  spite  of  its  miscarriage.  Of 
Ginger  there  was  little  trace.  She  had  been  caught 
up  in  a  winding  sheet  of  flame,  a  chariot  of  fire 
which  had  swept  clean  her  pitiful  and  outraged 


3i2  BROKEN   TO   THE  PLOW 

body.  .  .  .  Again  he  saw  her  face,  wistful  in  the  glare 
of  that  portentous  noon,  framed  by  the  outline  of 
Storch's  doorway,  heard  himself  call  her  name  in 
agony,  and  woke  to  find  only  a  memory  answering 
him.  And  there  came  to  him  a  realization  of  the 
terrible  beauty  of  that  moment  which  had  released 
her  spirit  in  white-heated  transfiguration. 

A  sudden  pity  for  the  living  began  to  well  up 
within  him  ...  for  Hilmer  in  the  relentless  grip  of 
the  harpy  who  would  tear  at  his  content  with  her 
scrawny  fingers  ...  for  Mrs.  Hilmer,  condemned 
to  feed  to  the  end  upon  the  bitter  fruits  of  hatred  .  .  . 
for  his  wife,  drifting  to  a  pallid  fate  made  up  of 
petty  adjustments  and  compromises.  Yes  ...  he 
found  himself  pitying  Helen  Starratt  most  of  all. 
Because  he  had  a  feeling  that  she  would  go  on  to 
the  end  cloaking  her  primitive  impulses  in  a  curious 
covering  of  self-deception.  She  would  never  un 
derstand  .  .  .  never !  She  would  always  be  restless, 
straining  at  the  conventions,  but  unable  or  unwilling 
to  pay  the  price  of  full  freedom.  And  her  remaining 
days  would  be  spent  in  a  futile  pulling  at  the  chains 
which  her  own  cowardice  had  forged.  She  would 
not  even  have  the  memory  of  bitter-sweet  delights. 

He  came  from  these  musings  to  discover  that  his 
feet  had  strayed  instinctively  to  the  old  garden 
which  provoked  the  memory  of  his  father  and 
mother.  But  he  found  it  destroyed  utterly  ...  its 
prim  beds  swept  aside  to  make  way  for  a  huge  apart 
ment  house.  The  last  intangible  link  which  had 
bound  him  to  his  old  life  had  been  destroyed. 


BROKEN   TO   THE  PLOW  313 

He  turned  away,  almost  with  a  feeling  of  relief — 
the  past  was  forever  dead,  burying  itself  in  its  own 
tragic  oblivion.  He  climbed  higher,  to  the  topmost 
point  of  the  Hyde  Street  Hill,  up  the  steps  leading 
to  the  reservoir.  It  was  another  night  of  provoca 
tive  perfumes  and  promissory  warmths.  He  skirted 
the  sun-baked  slopes,  sown  with  blossoming  al 
falfa,  and  came  upon  a  clump  of  wind-tortured 
acacia  bushes  facing  the  west.  He  threw  himself 
down  and  lay  in  a  sweet  physical  truce,  gazing  up 
at  the  twinkling  sky.  He  was  alone  with  the  night, 
he  had  not  even  a  disciple  to  betray  him. 

He  knew  that  if  he  willed  it  so  he  could  be  up 
and  off,  forever  eluding,  forever  flaunting  the  law's 
ubiquitous  presence.  The  sharp  urge  for  subtle 
revenge  which  had  come  with  realization  of  his 
power  had  passed,  but  he  was  done  with  any  and  all 
compromises,  he  had  no  heart  for  the  decaying 
fruits  of  deception. 

Would  they  find  him  here  wrapped  in  the  cool 
fragrance  of  the  night,  or  must  he  go  down  to 
them,  yielding  himself  up  silently  and  without 
bitterness?  He  had  touched  life  at  every  point. 
He  could  say,  now,  with  Hilmer : 

"I  know  all  the  dirty,  rotten  things  of  life  by 
direct  contact!" 

Yes,  even  to  murder. 

And  with  Storch  he  could  repeat: 

"A  man  who's  been  through  hell  is  like  a  field 
broken  to  the  plow.  He's  ready  for  seed." 

He  was  ready  for  seed,  so  freshly  and  deeply 


314  BROKEN   TO   THE  PLOW 

broken  that  he  had  a  passion  to  lie  fallow  against 
a  worthy  sowing. 

Presently,  enveloped  in  the  perfect  and  childlike 
faith  which  follows  revelation,  he  slept,  with  his  face 
turned  toward  the  stars.  And  as  he  stirred  ever 
so  slightly  he  felt  the  nearness  of  two  souls.  Clearly 
and  more  clearly  they  defined  themselves  until  he 
knew  them  for  those  two  erring  companions  of  his 
misery  who  had  been  made  suddenly  perfect  in 
the  crucible  of  sorrow  and  sacrifice.  They  came 
toward  him  in  a  white,  silent  beauty,  until  on  one 
side  stood  Felix  Monet  and  on  the  other  Sylvia 
Molineaux. 

And  before  him  in  review  passed  a  motley  com 
pany  of  every  tragic  group  that  he  had  ever  known 
— business  associates,  jailbirds,  the  inmates  of  Fair- 
view,  Storch's  terrible  companions.  He  recognized 
each  group  in  its  turn  by  their  outer  trappings. 
But  suddenly  their  clothes  melted  and  even  their 
flesh  dissolved,  and  he  saw  nothing  but  a  company 
of  skeletons  stripped  of  all  unessentials,  and  he 
could  no  longer  mark  them  apart.  And,  in  a  flash, 
even  these  unmarked  figures  crumbled  to  dust, 
spreading  out  like  a  sunlit  plain  at  noonday. 
And  he  saw  clouds  gather  and  rain  fall  and  green 
blades  spring  up  miraculously  and  blossom  succeed 
blossom.  And  through  it  all  Felix  Monet  stood  on 
one  side  and  Sylvia  Molineaux  on  the  other. 

He  awoke  to  the  vigorous  prod  of  a  contemptuous 
boot.  A  policeman  stood  over  him. 


BROKEN  TO   THE  PLOW  315 

"What  are  you  doing  here?"  the  officer  bellowed 
down  at  him. 

He  rose  quickly.  The  sun  was  bathing  the 
rejuvenated  city  in  a  flood  of  wonderful  gold. 

"My  name  is  Fred  Starratt,"  he  said,  quietly. 
"And  I'm  wanted  for  murder  .  .  .  and  some  other 
things.  You'd  better  take  me  down." 

The  policeman  grasped  his  arm  and  together 
they  made  their  way  down  to  the  level  stretches  of 
the  paved  street. 

They  stood  for  a  moment  to  let  a  street  car  swing 
past.  It  was  crowded  with  clerks,  standing  on  the 
running  board.  Above  the  warning  clang  of  the 
bell  a  voice  came  ringing  out  with  a  note  of  surprised 
recognition : 

"Hello,  Fred  Starratt!    What's  new?" 

He  made  a  trumpet  with  his  hands. 

"Everything!"  he  cried  back,  loudly.  "Every 
thing  in  the  world!" 


THE    END 


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